Rorschaching the tree

Today, I see a woman.

Her breasts, her belly.

Open heart surgery.

Or another woman,

one breast, lopsided

from a lumpectomy.

Or a young woman

in her seventh month,

waiting to see of she is having

a boy or girl.

Or an old woman,

her skin mottled and sagging.

Or my mother,

drying off from the pool

when I was young and ashamed

by breasts and bellies,

especially hers that hung down,

nipples and belly button,

to the floor.

Or, perhaps, a great, great

German grandmother from

the Isle of Silt,

washing up after a day of skinning salmon.

Or the grandmother we all

lean into, even when we are old,

wanting to rest our heads against bosom.

Or, any woman, every woman.

Her body made to give life,

her body made to store life.

Her life split between

the ones she loves,

and the one she calls herself.