I fold up Mother’s face and take it everywhere with me. I trace the under-eye hollows where her regrets pool, and I keep my thumbs tucked in her mouth. Every Sunday, she calls me from my pocket: Hello, are you there? I do not know the answer, so I just unfurl her eyes and stare. Mother’s face is an extinction in reverse—ancestors wake up in the cant of her nose. Without language, ghosts rise backward through famine and learn to blush again. The cracks in Mother’s brow bear names from long before they bloomed open. Mother’s face is where death sprouts lips and teeth. Absence grew up in my skin with me like a fig tree that bears only sighs. I learned to grieve the living as bruises—more shadow than form. With all my muscles, I try and shuck these histories from my flesh, but the spirits do not retreat. They burn through me, even as I unmoor myself from skin. My thousand translucent hands need something to hold, so I catch a passing bluebird. I kiss her breast and whisper, I cannot remember a time when nothing was on fire. Dwindling to ash, Mother’s mouth chews the bluebird’s wings and laughs at my endless displacement. Mother’s mouth is a blackened forest where seedlings raise their heads—craving something more than empty. Hungry, Mother’s tongue appears in flickers: the negative space between flames. My palms go missing inside her throat. She splinters my bluebird’s skull until there is more gap than bone. All the gone voices taunt me, Are you there? I cannot remember. Every time I look, there are fewer words for this dislocation. There is not enough bird left to hold onto.
I fold up Mother’s face and take it everywhere with me. I trace the under-eye hollows where her regrets pool, and I keep my thumbs tucked in her mouth. Every Sunday, she calls me from my pocket: Hello, are you there? I do not know the answer, so I just unfurl her eyes and stare. Mother’s face is an extinction in reverse—ancestors wake up in the cant of her nose. Without language, ghosts rise backward through famine and learn to blush again. The cracks in Mother’s brow bear names from long before they bloomed open. Mother’s face is where death sprouts lips and teeth. Absence grew up in my skin with me like a fig tree that bears only sighs. I learned to grieve the living as bruises—more shadow than form. With all my muscles, I try and shuck these histories from my flesh, but the spirits do not retreat. They burn through me, even as I unmoor myself from skin. My thousand translucent hands need something to hold, so I catch a passing bluebird. I kiss her breast and whisper, I cannot remember a time when nothing was on fire. Dwindling to ash, Mother’s mouth chews the bluebird’s wings and laughs at my endless displacement. Mother’s mouth is a blackened forest where seedlings raise their heads—craving something more than empty. Hungry, Mother’s tongue appears only in flickers: the negative space between flames. My palms go missing inside her throat. She splinters my bluebird’s skull until there is more gap than bone. All the gone voices taunt me, Are you there? I cannot remember. Every time I look, there are fewer words for this dislocation. There is not enough bird left to hold onto.
Mother regrets my mouth. She calls me her extinction—her language ghosts through famine and cracks me open. Death sprouts up in me like a fig tree that bears bruises more than muscles and the histories retreat through my skin. My thousand translucent hands catch fire . Dwindling to ash, the bluebird laugh s at my blackened forest. Craving empty, Mother palms inside my skull until there are no words left.
