I use my teeth to perform carnivorous

tasks, bite sharply into my tender wet

callus flesh, my insatiable aggression

mimics my mother’s self-lacerating dialogue

without trying to, learning the off-script rules

about who gets rescued, who catches

flowers. I have never seen my mother

in a bathing suit, never seen the purple

-and-blue razor scars rivering down

her shins. There’s poison in the long sleeves

and black pants she wears in the summer,

half-dark, her face glistening, shimmering

almost, watching the other women lie

in disproportionate forms, hung with alabaster

flesh, exposed like elongated fruit.

I want to know if she hides secrets,

lean in as her mouth opens with soft

possibility, feel her unleash

the generations of dark-complexioned

women moving without pause.

What burns and withers in a girl is

for her child to carry. The same primitive

urge, restless without lacquer, fanatical

cries at cellulite, death’s silent armies

clock in, each big-boned girl

making a pact with God to protect

their daughters from self-loathing,

not knowing that their young already

carry penchants of silent embarrassment.

In another life, I am not ruled

by comparison. I marvel at how beautiful

things are the way they are, don’t ask

for reincarnation. God, take me

into the unknown dark, let me climb

out of the deepest part of the earth,

fighting for my own self-confidence,

the soil lisping into black crescents

beneath my nails. Let me feel

desire, love, cry as defy bedrocks

of heritage. I give birth to my daughter.

At my last unfolding, I watch her look

in the mirror in love. This time,

her mind will hold tight and listen.