1 after she gave birth she walked around the city imagining everyone glistening, bordered with amniotic grit.
she worried about the dripping, the wasteful shedding. former parts of her body flowing into the city storm drains. everything reduced to run-off.
she always thought her soul resided in her ******. now she wonders if she'll find it flowing though rusted pipes, swelling in waves of excrement and rain water.
2 there's a middled-aged woman sitting next to her on an airplane. every woman she sees feels like her mother.
she wonders how many rooms she's never been. how many people she's never met.
she can see the ripped scarf wrapped desperately around the woman's head. it's always the broken who hold the universe in place.
3 when i speak of my body's life i know where it comes from. how it exists now. i don't know what it will produce.
i'm still wondering if a family can break. or if it just evaporates like water into someone's exhale.
i'll never know where the condensation lands. perhaps i'll be a father to a million different things.