Oh yes, they built my “mother” crudely
on the patch of flattened grass.
They told me half my blood was hers.
They told me they’d help me wring it out.
Our matter matched. That mama
screeched. I muttered,
Get it out—get it out—
in my sleep. They told me
I did this. Gave me a knife
and said, Defend yourself.
One night, all night, I saw her
tongue electrified white,
extended in a pummel of rain,
and when I woke
the tongue was in my mouth.
It was all useless. The bleeding.
What the self forms around
cannot be undone. In Alabama,
I faced the doors of a church,
and I thought, How to live
if this is who I am. A woman
walked by then on the sidewalk.
I almost didn’t recognize her
shape against the sun,
but she waved
and said my name.
I carry her on my back now.