There are so many ways to tell a story–
Something about the way
a plane drops from the sky.

I tasted motherhood in a beaker stemmed from
my belly, amniotic fluid
swimmed with urine & shed

My life peeling like flowerskin.
What within me could be born, I held.

Zero-sum means there is an ending.
The feast cannot be enlarged by negotiation.
Without rain, ruin. A stone cage
spilled with dust.

Here the needle.
Persimmon calyx.
A split fruit.

The long work of separating myself from my body.

What in me knowing fight also
knows falling. What in me ripens,

Skip to the end. The salt-weight of blood.
The question of fairness.

When the doctor held my belly-water
to the light, truthfully I was ashamed to speak.
They searched the humerus. The nose.
Angled wings of bone.
When I think of blame,
I blame myself.

What I could take I took.
Drains from me.
My body blank. The word, “awash.”
Hands unstitching
me closed.

Suppose I was a cold woman.

Here I hold hands with immensity.
The world a long way off.
My body is an airplane,
bound. It falls together.

Emily Vizzo