second womb

Nude and wet as I’ll ever be without fear of harm,

the steam envelops me. A soggy cocoon

of transient remedy. A more regulated drowning

until my breath returns, having ricocheted off the mold.

The curtain sweats out a desire sticky and lingering

as the craving your lovelessness affords.

I am trying to love the way you’ve made me

have to love myself. Permission

with no promise of return.

I open the faucet of us and nothing rushes out.

Mothering is slippery, I know. Lots of need

for grabbing on. For doing as you must.

You recount stories of your own many avoidances.

How you knew to do as told without question. Meaning

all the questions got jammed down from your slightly parted lips

to whatever organ holds the most hesitance

to your bloodstream. Hatching within me.

Now all I have are questions. My insides never dared

imagine being supple and uncalloused. So I gather myself

beneath a constrained downpour in hopes of dissolving,

imperceptibly. In hopes of seeing

what the drain has to offer me. I’d like to believe

there is a sewer for all the lamentations we’ve sloughed off

in anguished showers. A holding place prior to treatment.

Trouble with that is, all water gets recycled. Incessant

is sorrow. Foolish to think we can wade in the same waters

without repercussion, awaiting salvation.