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Surgery Dream (Euphoria)  photo

When my mother built me
again, she did not wait for sobs

to pass. She left clasps undone
then wept in her bedroom.

I tried to reach for the gown
but my fingers mumbled back hair

into metal teeth. I cursed quietly
waiting for friction to set the cloth 

ablaze. When she came back 
she carried no redness in her eyes.

I bent to kneel at her feet
studying what I might become.

The glint of silver polish or 
blood pooling beneath a toenail. 

Glasslike, I consider my mother 
a god of fragile things; quiet; bone 

grinding into bone; my wasted 
howl pouring up into the moon. 

When she felt me wince, she relaxed
her hands, detangling the flames

with reverence. I was a child unborn
to be born again—un-monstered

& beautiful, washed in her saltless light.

image: Aaron Burch