When my mother built me
again, she did not wait for sobs
to pass. She left clasps undone
then wept in her bedroom.
I tried to reach for the gown
but my fingers mumbled back hair
into metal teeth. I cursed quietly
waiting for friction to set the cloth
ablaze. When she came back
she carried no redness in her eyes.
I bent to kneel at her feet
studying what I might become.
The glint of silver polish or
blood pooling beneath a toenail.
Glasslike, I consider my mother
a god of fragile things; quiet; bone
grinding into bone; my wasted
howl pouring up into the moon.
When she felt me wince, she relaxed
her hands, detangling the flames
with reverence. I was a child unborn
to be born again—un-monstered
& beautiful, washed in her saltless light.
image: Aaron Burch
