Ten times before submission my mother died.

The first time she cursed her name in labor,

Basting my brother in bitter fluid.

After this,

I came out easy.

Preceded by births that just didn’t make the cut.

“More than seven?”

“Yes, more than seven.”

I am told to feel lucky, I spoke to her as a cell.

If I could polish off her disease with Brillo pads,

I would do so.

Gently.

When she finally submitted,

We blamed it on her being born a Capricorn.

These fucking Capricorns,

Having a way of going out that allows you to imagine the Earth after human extinction:

Peaceful,

But still full of deceit.