I try to remember what it sounds like to be

someone. I try to remember

whether our bodies will carry us any farther. I

try to remember if your father or my father 

was the one to put us under. I try to 

remember adoration, emancipation, what

a human looks like

from the inside.



bear-mother is not a name.

Neither is anything I have ever owned. Forgiveness

is not a path we have crossed yet; retribution

is not a path we will find. Tell me the names

of your children. Tell me the name of 

their father. Tell me whether or not

you love them.



it hurts. It hurts, Callisto, and all I want

is to learn how to let it go. How closely 

do fear and hatred stand

when they walk

together? Will it be long before I can look at them

and not wish someone dead? Not wish for blood

underneath my nails?



there must be something I can do. I say this,

knowing the falsehood of it, knowing that winter

has fallen and will never wake up. But maybe,

maybe if you gave me the names, drew me the faces,

I could find something. Someone. Maybe if you ran

your hands down my spine just so, just

as she did, I will recognize

her fingers. Maybe if you hold me

it will feel familiar. Maybe there is flesh under all this




you are the only woman who has ever

broken me in half.