water knee deep, she said.
So deep, it looks black sometimes.
Nothing rhymes with sometimes
unless we rhyme it with itself.
Like a whirlpool. Over again.
One time, my father almost died
in water, before I was born.
I hadn't worn my fabric into the pink quilt
of my mama's red womb, but he knew
of me, and so did others.
Collective, we know.
He gave me jars of water
and now I make it slosh round till the
insides drown, flooding my stomach
quick as it came in. The water
moves rivers through me.
See it on the floor,
falling through the cracks,
the boards, seeping the earth
it stands on. It is good medicine.
This lady tells me bye pretty mama,
but I'm not anyone's mama. Still,
I dance to a song I can't hear.
She wore djembe earrings.
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