Too stubborn
to supplicate, I bend for luster
not love. For absolution, I break my bones,
soften gristle with what teeth remain.
Mine an umbilical affliction without cure.
Do you think I asked to eavesdrop
through inherited eyes?
Recite to me a single memory not manufactured.
Even a mother is myth, fabling
to survive a marriage miscarriage man.
Call me a reed. Voices lake
behind my eyes.
The rims of wounds have wounds
as well. I have a theory about mirrors
that I won't risk repeating.
The women who made me already know