One after one. After one. Little lights are lost, little signals, little turns taken. How to open one’s mouth, then pressure to open one’s mouth, then nothing but soda water. Poached eggs and spelt bread on the kitchen counter. Being ugly is easier to believe. A frame isn’t the right word for it. Where I can see myself into myself. I was born ten days late, and the water came out a copper red. Like a breathing. I have seen the family. I have defined the word firmament over and over again. I am not saying something. So much as waking to it. What a wake. What a thing to work with.
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The baby you have is the baby you were meant to have. After so many years, it is what it is. Please understand that. It’s too much. That I can’t braid my hair. Into your hair. Cohesion happens first in the cells. And then later when the body stops. So I need you to know what I mean. When I say the house I grew sick in. To acknowledge the storm rolling in. I reach out in my aliveness now. Wrap you in younger versions of you. I want to meet your body like my body. In a dark kitchen. This is what you wake to. You are you and you. And I want you all in me.