from the sting
of forcefully squeezing out
into the light
after the thirty-six
hour birth

They dried
from laying in the plastic box
the doctor called an incubator
no rhythm
of a mother’s drum
a swaddle around my middle
not arms
the cold stare
of the tired overnight nurse

They dried
from begging her
to stop
the woman that cut me
from her body
The paddle -
hard and hot
leaving welts, the size
of leopard spots

They dried
the day daddy
left in his 56 Chevy
the powder of smoke
from the exhaust
filled the air
like a blanket of chalk
after clapping the erasers

They dried
from my cousin
pushing me in the washer
on the spin cycle
I came out
wrinkled

They dried
up in my flower bed
with the lace canopy
all the nights I couldn’t sleep
from the throwing glasses
and the screams

They dried
in jar I kept
in my desk
dabbing them on
as mascara
so I’d look sad
if I was called to


those were the last