I. Birth
Under the flowerless jacaranda tree,
my mother eats me
and throws my bones over the hedge.
Surrounded by clipped hibiscus,
she had made love with her father,
and the stories they needed
spilled beneath them. When rain freshens
parched dirt, old roots swell
with memories, and anything is possible –
me, a green slip of a girl,
made by a monster, in the image of a god.
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