When Mother calls me Daughter I say we will talk about that later. We will not. The unsaid goes seen before it suffocates in the air. I try not to look away from dissolution. On walks I repeat I am willing to die I am willing to die. I want to die so I can be alive. Dog walks into Mother’s kitchen when she is ready to die. She waits alone her body pressed against cool tile until Mother notices. Green fronds retract into knit when they are touched. When touched a leaf’s cell loses water given to another. I want to know did the shameplant close before it was named. As a child Mother calls me backwards. Before she named me did I exist alone or as something knit. Names make the felt invisible. Names make the invisible felt. Depends who is doing the naming. What I call pop dictionary calls coke. In the school library I look over my shoulder. Breath opens into air. The first word I look up is fuck but it isn’t there. Dictionary says Daughter is to be divided. Cells are born through replication and division. Nuclides become through another’s radioactive decay. When Mother names me does she reclaim her own decay. I am born and I am dying. Doctor holds my tits in his hands. My flesh which is not my flesh retracts. I am alone and knit to a vision. My breasts are coke cans. Insurance will pay if I remove enough coke cans until my chest transforms into a smooth plateau where nothing can be hidden. I won’t butcher you Doctor says. He calls me a name I do not call myself because when I call myself green fronds open and relax into the wind’s invitation. Mother I used to die for you so I could stay alive. I am willing to die. With the hairbrush in my hand I sat on your back slowly untangling knots into softness. Can you see me now
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