The world has done its work on me,
pressed its weight on my chest,
calling my wildness out.
We are wrong to expect
mothering from our mothers
And fathering from our fathers,
their feet netted by vines and roots,
their eyes, long ago, made useless.
What is it, then, that loved me?
That made me hold the wild in
like a young girl’s breath
when her head is underwater?
What is it that kept me screaming,
that knew not to give
all that was asked?
I have called it
Vision,
God,
Mother.
It is me,
the only part
born into the world
and not of it.
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