Of the sea
I was not formed from earth:
A dirty rib, used and scratching.
His name wasn’t on the birth certificate.
A womb of one’s own, forged in a locked room—
Nourished by sadness and
the shame they made her feel.
The sea always felt like home,
wind born waves held me.
Rocked me to sleep in a salted cradle.
Sometimes the monsters would come—
Emerging from beneath,
threatening to take my legs.
They never could, and I floated
eyes skyward.
Wishing I could row.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 