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.