claire pinkston

THETIS SONG

my daughter

if you must know anything, know that you were born fingerless

and full of ghosts.

I pulled you through the dark meat of my

eye, felt the dull crush of your

head, and when they came to pry the soft

fist from my cheek, I gave myself–you–up

to the deep, my hand between us made ocean.

I confess, I have grown tired of their small mercies.

how many hours did I spend, a girl,

knees dark with water, horse head lowered

to drink? how many men

have pressed foetus to their lips and reveled in my smallness?

I have swallowed the drownings so faithfully, and yet

my mouth has not grown to fit my teeth.

at night, in the city where everyone I love is already

gone, I hum good omens where there is no one left

to hear. o daughter, o exit wound, know

I loved you the only way I knew how.

that I saw the way the ground shifted to make room

for you, and could say nothing. leave no witness.

when they come for me, tell them I didn’t want

my name or any of it.

that I waited years, back splayed open,

wingless and searching–and emerged mother.