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. 
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