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.