by Mya Green

Changeling

Time’s mouth is wide as infinities, womb flexed,
daughterson pulled from darkest ink
ankles, wrists, roped, wildest wolf
couldn’t cut free—echo
the underbelly you palpated,
broodmother coccyx, in release.
Urchin heart, a tin-cage hum-hum in false
-etto. This rage bereft of face,

demands a name. Fault
of my original fault. Mistress of long memory,
sweet suet taken as tallow. Kingmaker or con,
same mathematics, new chasma, remember:

Carry the one, conquer,
divide by none.

Damage Path

Tornado, I see your witness and your face: strip malls off McFarland
filled with themselves, straw driven up-tree down the dirtroads, quick
to enter our corner lot, the yellow shackhouse, birthright broke open, our larvae
exposed. Mosquitoes here bite low like fleas, I think,
Father, we are nesting dolls. I am latent daughter gestating
inside you––our vices complementary––we are black links
‘round Daisy’s pluming ankles, anchors ’round this stilted house and I’ve heard
I can grow without roots (like moss): Tornado, I am
your witness and your face.

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