By: Billie Croft

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.