i check my skin in the mirror,
translucent,
i can see the green rivers curling around muscle,
carved caverns bleed when you remove the roots.
how fragile a thing.
how heavy a thing.
the burdens of our mother’s mothers,
their whip sharp tongues like barbed wires lash our backs.
the guilt lives through me,
i’ll pass it along to you, my darling child,
along with the bundles of nerves that reek with screams,
a dirge for the loss of blood.
it wasn’t until i learned how sticky blood was,
like sweat,
like lips,
like hands on hips,
and like my mother’s mothers i danced a whirling carousel.
the dirt is blinding and leaves me in a deadened fog of symbols and letters,
of words,
of words.