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.