After her death, I bled for over a month, feeling as if someone were
tearing my womb in half. Then, when it stopped, I was no longer a
daughter-- sexless, nameless, anonymous. I walked the streets as if I
were not there, invisible to the rain and wind, unable to smell the earth
beneath my feet.
This spring there is a phantom child kicking in my womb as if it had a life of its own. It sings to me nightly like a lost whale in the depths of the sea. Will it be my own death that I deliver in due course? Am I bearing my own death in order to give myself back to myself, thereby setting myself free?
spring dusk . . . basking in an abundance of frog songs