I left the birthing house
a while ago.
A haven of mournful mothers
and cries of new breaths pierced the air—
absent the slap of fathers.
Once, some time ago,
Even I was a part of that chorused cries,
I must have wished my wails would call
my sperm-father near.
Great-gran knew the birthing house
with its white-washed walls and summer curtains of lace and embroidery.
Her rheum coated eyes found purchase on sills, when she looked too long out the empty windows.
Time had pulled its dusty curtains across my memory.
I stand at the dead-end road with greenery and purple wild blossoms fringes.
My cells rebounds as I trespass on lost recollections.
Bullfrogs call out as I move pass them
to make my bed—
Down on even rocks at the hollowed tree root. Fireflies alight the blacken sky to create dreamer stars,
and sugar-water gives my belly something to talk to the night about.
In my dream and crumbled memory,
my raw skin and concave gut tries to grasp its empty edges
and satisfy the cavity between breasts and pelvis.