They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Invisibly, Yours | Felicia Zamora

I search static for a portrait of an eye; for your real eye rolls in socket away from me, absorbs my tissues in half light, thinks it knows me—distastes me—wants to suck my marrow & spit me wet & disoriented into an urn. The stagnancy lies to me; I’m a whole wound built from synaptic lies; scribble my name & before I ask, erasure—how synthetic rubber burns your jaws in chew; my name grits between pulp & dentin & enamel of molars; you forget me before you know how to speak me. Our thrash & flail temperaments where history winnows my vagina, my Mexican veins, my genetic disposition to die earlier than; we call these unnatural causes: environment of a single-parent-upbringing, weight of oppression. How my relation to someone forgetting; chaffs of me, where I lay down in the fodder next to my own guts & organs & muscle memory; to be ingested or at least tasted once, where you find me in float of your belly’s acids, etching my lips to the lining of walls.