National Poetry Month 2021

The freedom of fear, 

the dream of forgetting what ails me 

is salted,

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, 

doesn’t throttle.