by lauren lockhart
while I was floating inside her
my mother gave me a story
with her blood she gave it to me—
a transfused history which has removed my marrow
and replaced it with
fibers from a Douglas Fir.
born from one womb to enter the next—
Earth wounds me and heals me in the same breath.
her story opens
with a perverted momentum—
acres of clear-cutting
which is unlike the cycled fires,
and I do not want to trade my blood.
our infections are each a gift but I can trade my name
as a prelude to forgiveness.
when I am spine down on the ground outside,
I am home.
and I can hear my body’s wooden voice
which is her voice
which is the voice of this place, still
I cannot decide whether to sleep
outside with a spade
or in the basement with the mold.