she picked a name for herself out of the dirt,
wore it like a scouts badge
crossed upon her chest
and she bathed in streetlights and 
laced cotton breath and liked to
take her medicine with her toes up to the sky.
i liked to call her god cause she made life in everything she touched.
we went to the beach last spring—
back when everything was smaller
she held the soft air to her face and drank in the dawn,
whispered that she dropped her happiness somewhere 
in the dirt. she scoured for hours, 
until the shells of her fingers were bruised by salted earth
and gold began to pour out her callused hands
and finally she found it—in the oils on my lips and the ripples of my skin. 
she said god was not her because god could not be jealous of me;
jealous of my curves, jealous of how i bleed.
god could never be jealous of
how desperately
she loved me;
and when the midnight howled and the 
moon smiled on our eyes she asked me 
if i could ever love her
like a real girl.

i told her,
you are real
you are the only
thing that is 
real.
the first woman
was forged from a rib;
she has never had 
the luxury of being born
her own person.
but you
found your name
in the dirt,
in the cedar.
you are as real as
the stars in the ether.