It’s the night before your wedding.
In utero, I listen to anxiety crack
open your breastbone, persistent lightning as Pa
talks his mouth to rust. You always drank
papaya and banana smoothies
back then, yellow
sweetness puckering your skin like marmalade. Imagine
if I’d bitten our umbilical cord and held
your body’s rotten song in my mouth
as it formed, as Pa loosened your tongue.
You would’ve baptized yourself, calculated
the distance you could’ve lassoed your hair
around Pa’s neck. You would’ve torn out
my spine so he only had yours to worship.
Your breath tightens your legs, Ma.
From the nest, Ma, I can reach your thighs,
hold the wrinkled folds until they ebb. Can’t you see
you are a summertime of brine turning
the sea wall to sea, Ma? You were coating
your mouth in plum juice, waiting for God
to send a cardinal to scythe through
your stomach’s pregnant sky. Until your eyes
hardened and itched, and girlhood—
as you knew it—was dead.
2025