I pray for comfort.
You are there.
You can't deny that while I clutch my rosary beads
your tree limbs tap my window panes.
Your cool breath inflates my heart.
I fall into a dreamy sleep
of lives I haven't lived
and some I still could.
Your green leaves eagerly await my next move.
I make an appointment at the clinic.
I pray for you to leave.
I'm not ready.
I've loved you my whole life
writing names in my diary, boy names and girl names
knowing you are a girl.
Packing away barbies,
saving them for you.
But I'm not myself yet
so how can you be you?
Your mouth fills with words I place on your tongue.
Tree limbs stretch
scribbling your songs on the sky.
How to describe the smell of fat rain drops
splashing on parched stone?
That is you.
In my childhood, there was a giant doll
standing in a neighbor's window--
the neighbor whose little girl was taken
from the park
leaving behind that doll.
Her mother placed it in the window--
its arms reaching out as far back as I can remember.
I love you.
I love your father too.
Go back to where you come from--
you won't miss anything here.
Please come back another time.
I'll be waiting.
Bitterness dissolves on my tongue like a thin wafer
leaving only want.
The day before my appointment
I sit on the toilet.
My prayers are answered.
You swoop from my womb into the clouds
squealing with laughter.
Then fall back down beneath the black soil
a twisted creature writhes it's way from between my legs
riding on a bloody waterfall.
But that is not real.
Mourning seems silly.
Instead, for days I fill my mouth
with dark, moist cake.
It is like filling my mouth and ears and eyes
with soft sweet baby flesh.
Or pressing myself deep into the cool crumbly earth
and finding god.
I wait for you to come back.
and I wait.