by Kate Whittington
She was born in September, attracted
Butterflies at the end of a damp summer.
Could not tolerate drought. The doctor said
That her bones were radically arranged.
This meant stethoscope, or cutting very gently.
Without women, blood
Was a ring of ecstasy. The father
Laboured to black mark
The arm, wet the dark scalp, put
Cold cloth between the legs.
If you are to be my mother,
I am the daughter of
A sheet of glass. The rumour of a child
Who foamed over your feet, or birthed
From your smooth head came monstrous.