Blood Out the Water
Her skin puckered and crinkled. Her skin beat blue and purple. To shed is loss or becoming nerve meat pulsing. This heartbeat, this ravaged drum— she an eye-mouthed vagina pours blessings. So we see. Be make ground uterus. Tend a home. Spit on the carpet. Howl the lullaby of swaddles. So we seed. The first word echoes growth. Shatters you to tethers.
Then they pinch my face into a token till memory of life as human fades.
A seemingly undisturbed plain. And oh— the grasses.
She is ground water. Low hum. Swoosh plop tremble.
Now, I see a child and think maybe I am she.
Every time I want to pin the we, we slips away from me, a black eel squirming.
I steady watch slow churning texts—one sided, but cannot comprehend black light refracting.
I acknowledge I am too ensimismado to know how to say it properly.
Then they tried to nail my tongue, but it forked and curved in divergent directions.