Terra Firma by Amy Badger

You were once
that baby –
back to the sun,
bones growing
fast in skin and fat.

Your mother held
tight – innocent cocoon.
Your father saw you writhe
in cases, shells.

He cut off your hand.

Planted it
in the ground.
Rooted your fingers,
thumb skyward.
His will done.

Some god grabbed hold,
tugged Earth
a little closer.

Everybody but you
loved you better.

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