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From When Rap Spoke Straight to God

by Erica Dawson
Illustration by Gina Wynbrandt

From When Rap Spoke Straight to God

Erica Dawson
18 Snaps

On an X-ray, the stomach’s curve is more like

a waxing moon than organ, just a phase

unchanging in the belly’s sort-of womb.

 

When I was young at church camp, we would get out

the Ouija board and try to levitate,

smashing a flashlight in one cheek to make

a ghost story turn horror. I would make

believe spirituality.

Things like

possession—

going through a “knowing” phase

like all believers do—blessing to womb

to tomb. Growing.

Tonight, I’m playing out

“Go Down, Moses” as if it’ll levitate

right off the turntable. Or levitate

higher, a disc remixing the sky.

 

To make

the sky move would be sick,                           or really, like,

anything.   Maybe time could be a phase.

 

I press a flashlight hard against my womb,

spreading my legs to see if white comes out.

 

If only anything came slightly out

of the ordinary, my skin would levitate,

each layer would hover.                                 I aspire to make

 

a glory of a woman rising like

a field below a bluff, but not a phase

of failed perception. An evening.

 

There’s womb

in my throat now.

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