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Convincing myself of epigenetics

after “After” by Emily Pittinos

My mother
      is not my mother

             because she is not

      her own. She belongs
to thrown pots

             and the maggots crawling

down my spine, to chewed
      nails and unwashed hair. Everything

              she touches               rots and blossoms

      with larvae and caterpillars.
She is of the night

              and juxtaposing

the places our minds wander
       with the riptide. I am combining

              what lasts of the furniture

       with the puddles        of water
left from wherever

              we last left

       things and waiting.
              Watching for the sky

                    to shift as I realize

             none of us were
                    exactly human.

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