Burn
If middle age has a shape, it would be
the body singing, word by luscious word.
My body’s glory caught in my lungs.
If I could, I would uncry myself,
send my body back to my mother’s womb,
where my father once signed his name
in blood. I hung there, seam
of cells, fixed to my holy order—love’s
microscopic blaze so much like breathing.
My heart, still twined to my mother’s.
Her body, it held me like she hadn’t given up.
I long to be pulled from my mother
some August long ago and lie on her chest,
naked, cord uncut, hair matted to my skull.
I want to fill again the hollow in my mother
death will not take as its house. Teach me,
body, to unscar what is scarred. To cherish
the uncharitable. My breasts, whipped
philosophers. My eyes, a murder of crows.
My thighs are engines, leave traces of fire
as I rise up. Watch me rise up.
- Sundress Reads: Review of Not Now Now - April 29, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Affidavit by Starr Davis - April 29, 2026
- Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents Writing Without Words: On Gesture - April 28, 2026



