Baby womb tomb, catacomb write

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
nimble touch, my

[embalm touch palms]

would be
cold, naturally.                      
          I would be
          with pearl bone body, &
clasped hands

Photo by Ricardo Moura on Unsplash

Victoria Hurtado-Angulo

Victoria Hurtado-Angulo is an active member in her art community, participating and orchestrating art shows to open mics. She has been a featured reader at art events, held lectures for independent poetry workshops, published poetry ranging from zines to established publications, and is the Co-Founder of Art of Nothing Press publication for poetry and art.