she nearly died in the channel, wedged

between bones of dread

and agony until, with her bruised

little head she cleaved

our mother’s breakwater

 

I’d like to think this first violence

inured her to the rest

but that isn’t how it goes; baby—

skin too soft

takes years to cure

 

she ripped so that later I slipped

like a fish

and swam the straits she made

following her through broken

locks, she taught me

 

the secret reprieve of imagination

wrested from the fingers

of maternal power, how to endure

the rage that comes

and comes

 

until she rose from the slick

and went

 

perhaps that first, great

escape

from the cage of our mother’s hips

imprinted her soft skull

gave her the power

 

to fly far

nest elsewhere

hatch her own babies from delicate shells

so as not to bruise them

with her body