by Liona T. Burnham
Sometimes I want to sink my teeth deep
into the soft belly of the world.
I moan again, and my child slips out between my legs.
Don’t pick her up! they yell. The cord is too short—
she is tethered too tightly
to my body. Yet I cannot resist
pulling her into a first embrace.
Sometimes, I’m holding on again with my fingertips
to the shelf of rosaries packaged in plastic.
My grandmother is nearby,
but I cannot call to her.
My lips are sealed by my body.
My view fades to a twisting checkerboard.
Where am I on this board?
I know I fall,
but do not know for how long
or where I will land.
Liona T. Burnham has poems published or forthcoming in Sky Island Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Infinite Scroll, One Art, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and more. She teaches writing and research at her local community college. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and three daughters.
Emerge Literary Journal 