Progeny

All the lives I’ve lived,

my mother has given me one name: Cassandra,

or a legacy of silence

built in the bones of a burning tower. I was

a color in her belly until

they stole that from me, legs first

they removed me from her womb,

the bloody shadow of her cut—

This was my birth;

at the epicenter of an open wound, holding

the red of her stomach in my breath. Nine months

I make her ache, bore into the curse of my namesake—

a vision I would rather forget,

the auspicious curse of my becoming,

my prodigal return

to the only name I ever knew: Cassandra, it was you

who cut me. Twenty-five years

to end at the bend of my wrist,

and in thickets of scar tissue, the bruised fist

of sunset written ugly upon me.

The pain was my body telling me

this whole time I’ve been listening,

and in an empty white bathtub

I didn’t die with more to write.

My skin is a story I’m done with,

beautiful and ugly to love

and everyday, silently

it begs me to become.

I can’t die,

knowing the bleeding

is finally done. My mother’s

voice on the phone; you’re ready now

It’s time to come home.