Blood on the carpet
and the stench of
salinity
urine
sweat
skin
My thighs, folded like
cracker-jack toys
paper-white
on the top
brown
at the bottom

And between them

a stained
and rotten
and faded
flower
That begs to be innocent.
It is where my
heredity haunts me.
It is where my
future lies.
It is where
I close the gates for a missionary
and open them for a beggar.

I am feeling
a bowling-ball baby
inhabit my cavity
and drain my light.
I am wondering what it is like
to murder your own child
within you.
And have no control of that.
And have no say in that.
And listen to the crashing storms
in your belly
as each clump of tissue
is torn
and the fabrication of a future
is devoured by the wolves of your
ancestors.

I am so sorry
if I can’t fill your arms
with sons and daughters
with a rainbow of souls
with a basket of blessings
and the products of my womb.

Because, after all, I am erred.
Prom night dumpster baby.
I am the byproduct of
years of nights out
and a whole bottle of Jameson
and
What happened to the wedding money?
Tattoos.