by Whitney Egstad
When I say thank you
god, it means I want to kiss
the lucky conch shell in the shoebox
of my mother’s only heirlooms
and remember how I wrestled
my tongue against a grain of beach sand
stuck in my molar for days
after she died.
How I cut and sanded down
my taste buds over and over begging
to taste the memory
of anything— even bird shit
from the cliff where she held me as an infant
over the sea and chose not yet to leap
because she heard bird droppings
bring good luck, and back then
thank you, thank you
my mother believed
in signs. She told me I exist
because she wished for me on the dead
foot of a rabbit— dyed pink
and dangling on a chain of keys
to doors you closed
before I was born.
Whitney Egstad is a writer, dancer, and educator in the Denver area. Her poems and essays have appeared in various publications including The Best of the Net Anthology and The Rumpus. Her research, professional, and personal projects are centered on the intersection of healing and the arts.
Emerge Literary Journal 