AN APOLOGY IS A MOTHER’S BODY
Mother is written in skin. It is scratched
in my kneecaps as I kneel here now
and carved in the heart
tattooed on my arm— letters inscribed
in purpled circles
under my eyes when I broke
water and you left
this waterline on my body
from the time you almost drowned
me in your sleep. You died beside me
warm from the same sheets
and I steeped like morning tea
in your urine as the alarm
rang over and over— at least
three times I bargained
to keep a dream before I woke
and you didn’t and the word mother
became a dotted line I choked on
the telephone all week.
THE FIRST TIME I SWALLOW A SWORD
to see if I can cut loose the knot
in my stomach I tightened
around a picture I once found of you
and Celeste from the circus— a ball of fire
in your mouth. Do you ever dream
of leaving? I ask once
to your pillowcase, cool in the blue light
of my phone. When I can’t sleep, I invite you
to a nightmare I have had since
I was born. You roll your eyes
beneath your lids as you dream, and I register
for a lesson on how to open my throat
for a blade the size and weight of my entire family
running away.
Whitney Egstad
Whitney Egstad is a writer, dancer, and educator in the Denver area. Her poems and essays have appeared in various publications including The Best of the Net Anthology and The Rumpus. Her research, professional, and personal projects are centered on the intersection of healing and the arts.
Header image by Robert Nelson.
