Kate Bowers is a writer based out of Pittsburgh, PA. She has been published previously in The Ekphrastic Review, Rue Scribe, and Sheila-Na-Gig online.
They say we already exist in the
wombs of our grandmothers before any
Of us get to be thinking of high school
dances and parking with boys.
Seeds of the future that become
our mothers. We brood there.
The chicken or the egg clearly an argument
more popular among men and comedians.
On Spitsbergen, seeds live a long time by
design, floating on that island where scientists
Keep them in a Doomsday vault just in case we
run out of tomatoes to throw some day.
Out here, it is Tuesday under the sky and mother
moon. Seeded like pomegranates, full,
Our grandmothers stride even now that
we’ve come to fruition, stride again in
The granddaughters we carry ourselves
unseen but trembling under the curve of
Our hipbones, the edge of our waist bands
grazing their dreams, the petals of their skulls.
Realms through realms
Seeds within seeds