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 South Korea, to find yourselves
crammed into three-minute commodities. Lurch forward,

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 have to fold you closed into envelopes.
I stick every finger inside myself to find and 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. Of sandbagging
when I should burst like a water balloon. Of dry wit

instead of red handprint. 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.