Umbilical

I remember, 

The sound of a faint heartbeat

A pulsing, living, riveting thing

The smoothing of hands folding into my frail little chest

when I was barely a day and a breath

I remember the brief satin cord which connected us, for a moment in time 

 

Dreamlike days, where the sun is everpresent and glistening

Words a hearty amalgamation of pitches and gargles

Communication forming through touch and motion; 

a bubble of laughter erupting

It’s good

a huff of strained air

not good 

When the woman with curls like the sun presses her warm cheek against mine, 

it's good

 

She tucks me into bed most nights, 

I remember swallowing the pattern

 

Wrapped in home-stitched covers and duvets and linen sheets,

playing in worlds built beneath cloth, I remember the squeals of excitement

Writhing like the little bugs and beetles hidden in the dome of my cupping hands, baby fat and all

Dirtying the undersides of my nails, dirtying the underbelly of worn covers

I remember what it is to tumble and dig, to rummage and plant myself into the world beneath uncalloused fingers

what it's like to uproot contentment from tall blades of grass, to take it all for myself

 

I remember what it’s like to trip over myself

Panicked and anxious,  skin scattered along bathroom tiles,

when my feet were too weak to support the weight of my ambition

I remember what it is to wipe the weeping scrapes on my knees, trembling hands pressing an old rag on the bloodied bits

My own trembling hands, begging silently for a voice of guidance 

Clutching rags and cloths and miscellaneous items of clothing 

everytime I fell upon those bathroom tiles into my own arms

 

I remember wishing, hoping and 

even resorting to prayer 

 

The woman whose curls dripped off her shoulders like liquid sun, 

I remember her soft murmurs, 

and the strong set of arms that could carry the frame of a child in her arms

and how they would soothe the fraying ends of my hair

and kiss the bloodied blemish beneath juvenile wraps

 

Her laughter was that of windchimes 

Stained glass shards crackling, chirping and singing against one another 

Sanded at the edges,

careful not to harm 

 

Night approached

She bleached her hair, 

and the scent of chemical toxicity lingered within her embrace

The hold became

(something I couldn’t put a name to) 

 

Then her

curls wept from the chemicals

And her tea towels became stained from the same thing 

Blotchy, seared like putting out cigarettes on skin

I remember that clearly, 

more than I do her face

 

(There was a chemical in her hair

in her nails

in her jewelry 

In her breath

in her money

in the food

in the food

in the food and the

unwashed kitchen towels keeping her tortillas warm

the towels with burn marks and cigarette stains

and maybe

even the tips of her fingers

became yellow from the chemical) 

 

I washed clothes and fabrics, 

Table covers and dishes 

to appease, or maybe just to stand beside the window 

with my hands dunked in cold water

waiting for a gust of wind to jumpstart the heart

of my stained glass windchimes 

 

Sometimes I washed my hair in the sink

or even in the bathtub

Sitting on my knees, water lapping at my waist

I tried to remember what it was like 

Connected by a thin tube of scraps

to my mother when she was round

 

How could I deny blood

or a barrage of legal scribbles 

or

The welts in my skin 

circular and mocking 

 

I remember cutting it for the first time

I remember hearing it somewhere: 

hair carries memories 

 

The nape of my neck was exposed

For the first time since my chest was

wrapped and 

wired to monitors 

I could feel a breeze

The kiss of the Earth and her breath 

 

And then nothing made sense 

I remember asking 

how could the world continue moving 

In the presence of my red-hot anger

Raging, rampaging loose as if I were a dog 

set to be euthanized

ready to be forgotten for something bigger

how could I be expected to function 

Like some cog in a machine

 

I thought of the bugs I used to capture in the dome of my hand

writhing and 

little

 

I remember the time passing

Eventually, 

but still passing 

and the edges of my anger chipped

Dulled, because 

what was there left for me to do.

I dragged my teeth across rocks

Gnawing until it eased

and until I could no longer pierce through skin

 

(her blood beats through my skin and

my body

and

there is nothing to purify me from it

 

but 

this body is born of musk and 

sweat

like the boy you never birthed

and never wanted

And I am here anyways)

 

I remember waiting for windchimes and 

fabric scraps 

and learning to live without

Striking matches and breathing out

Something akin to chemicals and toxicity