Mother
There’s a hush where a harvest should be. A lullaby
choking in the throat of a storm as the silence sways,
fish scales in a drained river. Outside, the trees are leaning
like women at the edge of a wake. Inside, roots whispering
in my ears, bones in my mouth. The grave does not stop
at my feet, it climbs my legs, hips, throat, rocking
what’s left of my breath. I can’t. I stitched my thighs shut
with fishing wire, buried a seed before the soil had a chance
to dream. Still, the water came. And now even after
I’ve wiped the earth clean. After the pills, drip, they remain.
Fingers that could have traced my chin, skimming beneath my ribs,
clawing at their bedroom—the dust of a hunger I never asked for. How
Mama, did I not know a ghost kicks harder than a child? Why
babies? When the blood did not weep for you but I did.
