Today, I am her sickled spine
yearning for earth, drawn to descent.

Gravity grounds this sadness to latch
its stubborn feet into rising mornings.

Before school, I’d watch my mother rest 
against the burgeoning sun. 

I’d ready myself for the walk alone
as if I’ve come from nowhere.

I wonder if her bed felt like mine, 
the edges reaching over. Did she 

wait on this cliff, readying to
swim the waters before the swallowing?

I take 10mg of Citalopram each morning.
My mother smokes a cigarette.

We both have our ways.

In the beginning, we lived in habitual dark
except I was my mother’s orb brewing.

Could this have been the place 
where we were woven?

The weathered soil of lineage 
doing its best to yield?

I am ruptured harvest. 

The flood of the day 
invites me into tomorrow.

There she is 
a waking dream.

Gathering her bones 
to ache forth through existence.

The sky bellows the tide
to guide these bodies.

The waves sing us through.