louder than fear, i said emptiness.
so it rained, the tap sighed & night
was broken on the tap head. all
things cast the shadow of earth.
this earth has too much shadows.
that much weight? I begged her to
stop, carried her charred because
she was fire in her body, she, the
barrow of the world. she said fine
is an euphemism for fire in any
language. I told my mother, bent,
I'm fine & a vulture's beak broke my
skin. my chest quivered into life
like a garotte stretching fingers.
She said, around my scarred throat,
I'm the girl that is not death, her
hips like a swallow beneath the
creator, river returned into me. I
didn't see, high on cannabis but the
language of sight showed me my
mother sought, when I did not cry,
the cliff of her tongue language &
there, the river did not cry. But a
god punished & he called it birth.
I was drunk on iron. Into form, my
bones became an anvil when morning
showed me how to cut my umbilical,
my tears the wound behind sight,
my body, the tide that brought the
door to the shower where I drowned
the womb. the river had sloughed
& on the bathroom mat, slept hope.
📸: pixabay
Yours always,
Osahon (warpedpoetic)