There are so many ways to tell a story–
Something about the way
a plane drops from the sky.
I tasted motherhood in a beaker stemmed from
my belly, amniotic fluid
swimmed with urine & shed
cells.
My life peeling like flowerskin.
What within me could be born, I held.
Zero-sum means there is an ending.
The feast cannot be enlarged by negotiation.
Without rain, ruin. A stone cage
spilled with dust.
Here the needle.
Persimmon calyx.
A split fruit.
The long work of separating myself from my body.
What in me knowing fight also
knows falling. What in me ripens,
rots.
Skip to the end. The salt-weight of blood.
The question of fairness.
When the doctor held my belly-water
to the light, truthfully I was ashamed to speak.
They searched the humerus. The nose.
Angled wings of bone.
When I think of blame,
I blame myself.
What I could take I took.
Drains from me.
My body blank. The word, “awash.”
Hands unstitching
me closed.
Suppose I was a cold woman.
Here I hold hands with immensity.
The world a long way off.
My body is an airplane,
bound. It falls together.