tracing the aura of a continent

documentation of live performance

Tucson, Arizona

2025

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Pressing the fuzzy flesh
of this little threenager -
this love mouse;

the child has asked for a massage
(for he is the parrot on his mother’s aching shoulder)

Knowing nothing, thank God, of bone-weariness
Knowing nothing, thank God, of times so lonely
that touch arrives only upon request.

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It’s true that his small muscles work hard
and that I care

it’s just that I want my own

so badly

that I’m afraid I’ll rip him apart

take a piece for myself.

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As usual, my blood arrives–

reproachful clots of babylessness​

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chest tissue tenderizes sore and ripping

muscles twist and tear

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In every mirror I stick out my well-bloated belly pretending

it isn’t just another emptying;

 

not-baby.

 

Clutching my lower back as if I were carrying the weight of life

instead of the low tide.

 

The paper ends of my tea twirl in the wind as I carry my biggest jar from the house to the car,

keep my aching womb warm as I live another day.

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For if I’m not going to carry a baby yet,

I’ll be damned if I’m not going to carry myself. 

I am a mother 

I am.