My first friends
were old and animal.
I approached them in braids,
or thick tufts madly stuck
to salted nape.

After a bath,
I’d argue with my father
on the most inane things,
I’d say I’ll never kill
any living thing
my tongue repudiate
in flame from shy eyes, every time
he would end it and say,
you are truly kind, my girl,
and holier than me.

At night, hitting the dog
because he wouldn’t come or stay.
Breathing hard, pushing figurines
under water, cutting into my horse’s face.

Nothing does change,
the seahorse holds
the field of carefully collected refrains
and all things turned
upside-down are embryos in some way.

Hearing us, my mother’s lips
would limp together and curl up,
you haven’t had a baby yet, just wait
to tell me you wouldn’t kill.

I wait for June to come, but
she’s right, I know I will.


3 thoughts on “Hippocampus

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