Living in the womb
could not be a better job. Fixing
fewer words when nothing
else matters. Blithe in placenta &
blood born. But, we obliterate
our mothers. We smell
fresh, supposedly.
The thought of being a
dead baby
keeps me up, so I write. I write
the mystery names of
breathless pronunciations. Draw
the process of the bris
of that
unheard man. Kiss
the wall & pretend they’re
here. Let them cry
like those sweet cadaverous
ways they
might have. I am living
this life & wondering
about those miniature coffins. Mine
would have been
12″ W x 29.5″ L x 7″ H. Faded,
piss white. Gingham fabric white
lace stuck in my hair. See, I’d still
be my actual size.
Interior Boston
finger
nimble touch, my
[embalm touch palms]
cheeks
would be
cold, naturally.
I would be
dense
with pearl bone body, &
clasped hands
holding
Photo by Ricardo Moura on Unsplash
