Report from the Skinhouse

I went looking for the body.

The apple, tree, the river.
Gliding voice, curve of arm,
pearly blue uterus.

Muscled calf, the neptune green
eye, blood with the same 
taste as mine.

Why do I write my report this way?
An adopted child needs to find a face.

What does a real mother’s body look like?
River, chalkline, bloody cave?

I am replica of nothing.

birthmother, conjurer, boneshaker, witch,
let me smell your skin just once,
I’ll give you your bloody daughter.

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Listen to a reading of the poem.