It was prior to the silent parts of your body becoming noticeable
you were regenerating
heat and skin
as one bird lifted on the Lower Zab river,
and then another.
You were standing in the kitchen on your own, vacant
boiling water into eternity outstretched in the garden; you were vegetarian and
entire in the bath after dinner.
We are prone to collapse and magic I was the first to start showing the signs.
Forever mutilated and sleeping,
dying as a child does spinning light and organs like ribbons leaving the TV screen.
You said let them push the needle in –
what an armada of cancer’s inside me! Building one more hard yellow mountain.
I think you made my skin too tight, mum.
That’s why I am still here, I am sure I am the living one.
When I was deep in your belly,
a sack of organs inside one of yours.
I could be an ex-gymnast, one metal leg, a girl on a stretcher. You could consider me a civilian
when they find me panting and rolling
around on my back,
gladly exposing my stomach in submission,
thank you for my hands to feel, my one good leg to walk.