In the Beginning
In the beginning
the continents spread, divided
like a fertilized egg.
Inside my mother I pulsed
like a wound, the kind you prod.
Then I slipped out of her womb,
swam towards God’s mouth.
My gooey eyelids opened. The salt
stung them. When I saw her from
the outside, her eyes looked sad:
Jellyfish hair, dragged up in bundles,
fingernails bitten too far down.
Now we hold hands
in a big blue bed,
dance like rooted seaweed. This
is our place now,
on the border of God’s mouth.
Tongue veined with salt, lips
throbbing.
My mother once thought of leaving,
drew a map towards another land,
but then shore tore it up. She
didn’t know what to do
with her hands.