From His Rib
by Kaycee Painter
He picked me like a fig from the tree
and said I was ripe for the taking.
His helpmeet, his harvest.
Said yes with my head bowed,
barefoot before the altar,
vows sealed in oil and song.
The spirit moved, they said, and so did I—
from daughter to wife, from vessel to vow.
My belly blooms each spring,
like the tulip bulbs I did not plant—
fruitful and multiplying like the word commands.
I am pregnant with our sixth.
He places his hand on my belly like a benediction
and says this is what it means to be fruitful.
I do not say I feel more soil than seed.
I do not say that I am tired.
He preaches gospel with one hand on my knee
and the other clutching scripture
like it might ascend without him— like I might.
I bake submission into biscuits,
lace grace into my daughters’ hair,
teach them to sit still and sing sweet
to hide their hunger in hymnals.
Blessed are the meek, I say, and they believe me.
But somewhere between the casseroles
and the christenings and the kneeling and the knowing,
I forget how to ask for more without it sounding like sin.
At night, I press my palm into the curve
of my daughter’s back, and whisper
not a prayer but a plea:
Let her speak with the tongue of Deborah.
Let her laugh like Sarah in the tent.
Let her dance undignified like David
and never be told she must sit still.
I named her Eve,
so she would know wanting was never the fall.
Bonus Audio of Kaycee reading her poem…
About the author:
Kaycee Painter is a disabled writer from Dalton, Georgia. She is the web editor for Mouthful of Salt. Her work has appeared in Last Girl’s Club, The Atlanta Review, TrashLight Press, and The Nonbinary Review.