I’ll start with your soul
in heaven’s workshop, where the heart is worn; I must stitch its most broken, vanquished, angry body together. The womb fits in the bowl of my too good uterus, I feel it leaking, the baby legs of a future boy and girl in my lower back and strung throughout my inner thighs.
Nature has bred me to bleed.
a brain breeds knowledge, I can
talk
Not at first, I make her
lips catch on sharp incisors,
I make her
lisp, and she must train to bite
without drawing fresh blood.
She can talk
To her first born she never can talk
The katrina showers do all the talk
But her little girl only knows to talk
The daughter talks for her in the waning hours of throw up and chemotherapy, too much talk
I mold the skin and spread the splatter blood, I always hate red dots I create the stomach that can hold too much, I eat less to hide it I craft the breasts of a swollen girl, the cancer eats it anyway.
I am the DNA of this older woman. I am the person that hates what they come from
I pass big noses- my mother is the breeder of my bad traits
I pass on green eyes- and the ones that betray me with their too sensitive feelings; I pass on able bodies- what I only expect.
I pass on- a lineage of versions of
Myself.
