work. > poetry.


Some say it was a dream, a dream where I kicked my way out of our mother, where my sister had me locked in a stronghold, the air snapped out of my curve. But where was the morning to recall it, the night a tunneling of light behind the eyes? One day, I saw in front of me the shadow of a form clutched tight in the space my body carved out for her, my mother’s belly a slippery round crate for me to maneuver inside. Another day I was submerged in water. Her body on top a sternum in the back of my stomach, a chest cutting out a hole, an anger she waited to claim. Her elbows pressed grooves behind my shoulder blades. My head underneath, my throat filling and filling. Each time I write this, the wrong thing keeps coming, when really it was the dream like a flash of light that became a memory, the memory of me kicking my way out of our mother, drowning.