I should stop praying to my dead self, find a way to come back into inhabiting my skin, own my soul like I didn’t in the first act of living. Imagine me floating from the river, from the sky, into my hair, then my face, then my skin & imagine mother wearing bright clothes like all expectant mothers do.
there is no such thing as resting forever,
we drink to the memories of lost one’s resting forever.
I ache to curve my mother’s face into my palms, tell her I am here but ghosts are what they are,
bodies without phalanges,
so instead I choose the body of a small child, mother, I am no longer gunning for my own extinction.