Living in the wombcould not be a better job. Fixingfewer words when nothing else matters. Blithe in placenta & blood born. But, we obliterate our mothers. We smell
fresh, supposedly.The thought of being adead baby keeps me up, so I write. I write the mystery names of breathless pronunciations. Drawthe process of the brisof thatunheard man. Kiss
the wall & pretend they’rehere. Let them crylike those sweet cadaverous ways they might have. I am living this life & wondering
about those miniature coffins. Minewould have been12″ 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 Bostonfingernimble touch, my
[embalm touch palms]
cheekswould becold, naturally. I would be dense with pearl bone body, &clasped handsholding
Photo by Ricardo Moura on Unsplash