I will liken the heavy clouds that pass over my land to grey matter
before my body remembers the practicality of pain
& blood rushes into my bladder.
I’ll swallow a scream, or
the spoke of a wheel: forever playing my part
in my personal samsara, my own
hell. Did you know that birthmarks are portals into past life regressions?
In six or seven iterations I will swath the scalp of my son with a scythe
until semisolid clots thicken on the crown of his head & trickle into my mouth like sorghum.