Ectopia: from the Greek ektopos,
out of place )
My restless daughter is changing:
a quaking storm
moves in her like a butter churn;
in time it will cause sweet cream to surface .
She is casting off selves,
crimson balloons freed from a roof
as blushing birds.
Against her tide,
I move in different directions.
I pull old selves to me
and remember now what I was
too busy to mourn.
I think of you--
pinkly clustered ovarian pearl,
slipping down a strand
towards my breathing womb.
Why did you pause along the way?
Like my restive daughter,
you would not stay
where you belonged.
you coiled in a fallopian tube
like a snail in circled shell.
There is no grave or stone.
There is this forking scar
beneath my naval;
at night I run my hand down its crooked spine
and grieve you again and again.
My Ectopia, for you there will be
no sweet cream
or blushing birds.