ancient girlhood

we would shovel out the sun from behind
the wall of clay. 
at daybreak, i took off my fingernails
one by one. replaced them with tree cuttings.
laid down in the valley where 
no one else will go. i think to be a girl is
to be a specific kind of hungry. no one would
come with me. they all wanted
to sleep in & suck on sugar stones. 
i ate a bird whole. felt the wings beating.
i always arrive like this.
with an urge to find out all 
of what i might contain & what might 
contain me. the roots tear me like
bark pulled from the stomach. i worry that
one day my skin might get so thin
that all the stars start crawling out
& i am left like a sieve with nothing
else to catch. the bugs are girls & the tree
are girls & i am somehow not. do we always 
define ourselves through a lack? i am not
you & yet you are a thorn-sized hole
in the skirt i used to wear. all holes widen.
become deer paths. become genders.
little lights in the dark. like moths,
here we come. not the sun. not sure
exactly why or how we are supposed to
satiate ourselves in this kind of muck.
the trees bear fruit. i eat it until i am sick.
my gender gets real lost. loses her eyes.
i come back hollow. wind blows
through me easy as a winter ash. 
everyone else is painting their lips red 
so i join them. the sun burrows again
like a fat toad. all that's left are mouths 
& the ancestors still searching for
their skin too. their teeth ring.