On a Sunny Morning, I Teach My Four-Year-Old How To See My Bones From The Outside
Terri Linn Davis (Flame) and Abigail Hora (Spark)
I hold my hand out to him
and make a fist, and my knuckles the tendons and bone
show through my skin like white sharks in the shallow end of a pool. He and I are riveted
by bone, confined by red spider lilies.
I know it is hard to acknowledge
the skeleton inside your mother. I show him I am bendable and make him laugh
by folding my ear into something smaller than what it is, like a mollusk or a map of the world.
He finds a flashlight and learns how to ignite my fingernails into blood windows.
There are acres of capillaries behind stained glass, and he shouts the verb, "bleed" instead of "blood."
Your mother is dead, and this grief is a kind of bleed-ing.
Even now- it reds, it spiders, it lilies.
I have a collabrative poem in this issue of @s2fjournal.bsky.social with my spark, Abigail Hora! I absolutely love this journal and this creative exercise.
Thank you so much to editors, Katherine and Natalie!
Read the whole issue here!:
www.s2fjournal.com/assets/Issue...