On Delivery I apologize for birthing you on unwilling park benches and hobbling away. For twisting your fingers until they pop off like grapes. For lacking the strength to name you. When you crawl out of my body you are already someone else. I apologize for never looking at you long enough to tell you you're ugly. To do your makeup. To see my scars across your abdomen. I don't want you to lose feathers over the Pacific, to experience being plucked smooth in Seoul or Bangkok, to find yourselves crammed into three-minute commodities. Lurch forward, and stab anyone who trips and falls across your path. Everyone with your heart enjoys a little bloodletting. Did you know some bodies produce too much blood? It makes me sick with envy. I want to wear you about like open wounds instead, I shy and fold you into envelopes. I stick every finger inside me to find, to plug up my cracks. As if anything except sand seeps out but, wow, that is a lot of sand. And wind. I am done being a beach and not an ocean. Sandbagging when I should burst like a water balloon. Drying wit instead of redhand print. Leaving you jacked up and sprawled out on the operating room table. Hold still while I commit surgery. Wake up and smile at my face in the mirror. How horrifying. I worry you are not my rose-flushed kids. I worry you are merely scabs I grow tired of picking.