If I could reconstruct myself
What part of the creation would be mine?
If my mother would mold
The size of my thighs,
The color of my skin,
And the expanse of my height.
What power would I hold?
What part of it could I call 'my own'?
If I could rebuild my form
How would I ever call it a home?
If my father would guide the stroke of my brush
To prime my canvas
not with white but with blood.
And If I could re-stitch this cloth.
Would I stitch over the knots,
My brother tied so quietly concealed from the evil eye?
And underneath the rhinestones,
The silk flowers and whalebone,
Would the knots survive?
If I could reconstruct myself
What part of the creation would be mine?
What power would I hold?
How would I ever call it home?
