Weren’t you born, once,

and before that, the

liminal space, wary of

becoming what, exactly. Shuttled

thread to thread. Woven

before you walked on

spinnerets. Silk.

Could you see it, yet,

and isn’t everything

in this world

temporary. 

What is this exercise.

Was it asked for.

Did you believe in magic,

with better reasons

to trample household gods, clay

and poorly glazed.

You play with dirt,

creating snakes on wrists,

bleeding bathtub

letters

and cast-off houses.

Mothers, especially those. 

You wish

parthenogenesis

for your own sake.

Writing allows you that.  Approach

words with a scalpel.

You reopen scars without new

wounds, or lengthening. 

The firm white line –

a rope that binds you, if

not to this life,

to the living.

You conquer oceans.                                                              

Plant

flags in

water.

This is what they

taught.

You could fly

to where I

everywhere

will not call it a bird. I will not –

behind glass                                                                                        

and security,

guards. Nothing on me worth

loving –

in, in. Anyway,

the lack curved around me,

at night

safer than the space you

took up

in the world.

I am mostly water. And you –                                                                      

you

would sink.

born

before I walk.

How else do I not float away.