I held you, once, my womb still a swollen cloud of blood, you were wrapped in white, even your hands bound, as if your fingernails were glass.
Eyes still unopened to the world not my body, unhurried, without hunger you licked the nipple as if tasting a berry for the first time.
A thousand miles north clouds of blackberries will bruise beneath your skin, needles will sink to the softness in your bones, find the marrow bad I made you with.
We’ll hear whirring, like the voice of air on a cliff, our bones scattered at the grave's mouth, as when one cutteth and cleaveth wood upon the earth.
I unwrap your cotton fist, find, small, my own long wrist and fingers, palm.
It’s early yet, my voice is let to mother you.
-- Kelle Groom is the author of four poetry collections, Underwater City (University Press of Florida), Luckily, Five Kingdoms, and Spill (Anhinga Press); a memoir, I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl (Simon & Schuster), a Barnes & Noble Discover selection and New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice; and most recently, How to Live: A Memoir in Essays (Tupelo Press). An NEA Fellow, Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellow, and recipient of two Florida Book Awards in poetry, Groom’s work has appeared in AGNI, American Poetry Review, Best American Poetry, The New Yorker, New York Times, Ploughshares, and Poetry.