the stitches are beginning to come undone & my mother, my child, my motherhood is beginning to tear through the fibers of my fears, the skin i wear on the second or third layer of myself, like an organza skirt that lays on my skin...so light and airy you have no idea it's there but i do. the cells are reproducing so fast that i can hardly hold onto myself...trying to zip these big black bags, obese at the seams with swatches of my soul, my body parts, my anger and all that comes with it, inside, unfolded & worn. i sit on the bags. i sit on the flesh that i came from, unravelling the map faces of all the mothers, looking up the longitude and lattitude of where i can go to get away. to not do what she did to me, to run, to wash my face, to hold it all in & do something soft. i go back to the bags....i try to close them up faster & faster. the zippers keep breaking. and so does the chandelier, the mirror, the phone... another natural disaster. every minute is the apex & nadir of the play. observing life like a pirate. one eye gone, a hook for a hand, assessing the damp log & hoping to hit gold. it's a pure body thing, the stories come without a preface or a warning. the kettle gets so hot and begins to whistle so strong and i am all alone.
defining motherhood as i sit on these bags and cry.
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