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" Seed-- The boy I loved/had the veins of the ancient./He was eighteen, but also/a hundred and eighty,/Biblical and stubborn/as stone lodged/in the earth./ When the seed/spit its way to my womb,/I wanted to farm it,/watch over its growth,/ and I was the mother,/ my body the soil,/ and so it was my/ soil to keep./ My soil to keep./And I would tend it/ myself, root out/ the weeds, rake/ the dirt back/ and forth, smooth/ and soil over and/ over and over and over/ with my two bare hands. "
― Jenny Hubbard , And We Stay