The freedom of fear,
the dream of forgetting what ails me
with a stagnancy of brine.
I have been in this sauce since the womb.
I am my mother, I belong to her
in ways I never gave permission to.
A mother is a vessel, the great poets told me so.
The womb is a cave lavished with disenchantment and successes.
I carry her in my hands, like afterbirth.
I eat of her palms and scrape the last parts of me into a desert.
I enjoy the menagerie of this,
how I represent a trophy of something she is not,
and now I am everything she is. In the split
of my own cuticles, I stick pins in, to dig out
what I’ll eat, A hope to find you somewhere close
somewhere I can glom onto, so that the fear of being me,