What Bodies are Meant

The question we are asked
is mother. Daughterless, they
call my body desert, a word
that is close to, but not the
same as sea floor. I think I am
dreaming. I hear her voice:
a hive of bees in a field of lily
of the valley. My entire life has
been spent reaching towards
something I lack the language
to name, yet sits on my tongue,
familiar as hello, satin as cream.
They define longing as a form
of ache, as if it is never good to
hurt, as if bleeding is not what
bodies are meant to do.