Memories of bulimia during morning sickness
Old hunger winters
in the dense blossom of 
my body. 
 
If to mother is to scar,
these ulcers twinge translucent within
my throat. I birthed  
 
them with my own
hand. This fetus throbs
stomached shadows: 
 
all the times I longed
to empty my body, how I loved 
to spill myself. 
 
If to mother is to bind
one thing to another, I am the mother
of all the memories who shape
 
shift alongside me, all
the places in my body
where skin forms something new. 
Copyright © 2004–2020 Memorious