conceptions

conceptions

my mother’s pale nightdress, hiked up her thighs.

she asked god for a place to put her fears

and i came out, skull-caved and squalling, fat

with hungry gristle, begging for things she

could give. breast milk and butterfly kisses.

peanut butter and honey. the red and

blue lights, spinning patterns on our driveway

while the cops made sure she wasn’t really

going to kill herself. she would never

do it without a crucifix. she named

me after the virgin mary, as if

what came out of her could be put back in.

as if no other dress was ever shoved

up over her hips, no other child named.

-

april 2018