The Wake

The hand of it that bends, hunched fish.
Kiss my sternum. Breath escapes
burning acid. Spring awaits us.
I picture your face, granules of flour smash against a light bulb, the rest is just dust. Where is the matter that makes up the current you?

This place you ought to know. My vagina feels right before the flowers bloom
A sting, a pinch
of remembrance telling me
Not to forget the time I swung on a tire swing and felt not my own presence of woman
But everything’s gift of photosynthesis.

If I could show you what the flowers do
I’d lay on my back
On the ground in the dirt
And pretend the moon was pulling a string attached to the spirit
Inside my chest
Upward and I’d cry because it felt so good
To be drawn.