Tell Her I was a Fish

Tell My Biological Mother

When I kiss my palms, my eyes feel thunder. When the side moons of my wrists pulse outward, I remember a time inside of insides. I remember her arms brushing against me like fins of a shark. I remember tiny death-blows from fists. I have dents on my skull to prove them. I touch these essential gouges. I tell people I one wore a heavy crown. And that I once lived in the crotch of tree that held on to me for weeks and fed me what birds feeds their young. My tongue is sometimes a coastline. I wake up with objects from the past. I wake up with languages and pieces of thread that I have to bend my body to pull it out of my throat—strings of black script that highlight a coveted white world. I wake up with my mouth full of stars from dreams of eating the Andromeda and the Six Galaxies of Silk. Tell my biological mother I favor my right foot over my left and walk on a tilted axis I will not ask my doctor about. Tell her I knew about the swells, tell her I was her way out. Tell her, I was a fish.

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Listening to Heligoland – https://youtu.be/Gt6jH2xOk50