spewed milk, sleepless, me at her breast,
A blanche neige, hi-hi-hoing until the morning light.
Years later I was stretched like a banquet on a table,
Hands were laid, women pressed and howled: out, out,
They bid the fever slither, my insides tightening, then,
Light, like a funnel above my head, I felt my body
Rise, unmoor, and my mother’s terror, saying finally,
Stop. And my body snapping back. And the voices
Inside my body, and out: I was their Ouija board, my
Organs turned. My body snapped back into its skin.
In another time I would have been drowned or burned –
Burn – it’s what those without an exit do best.
The addict asleep is her own incendiary device.
Won’t someone light a match? Just one.
The body knows what it needs to burn, and will.
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