My grandmother came out of the womb as a refugee from her own skin.
The scars she stitched into her forearms were survival hymns,
because being born is only a tragedy when the blueprints for
autopsy are already laid out. My grandmother came out of the womb
knowing 75 years early how the aneurysm would erupt through the walls
of her future husband’s stomach exactly the same way in which
she tore apart her own mother’s belly during the C-section.
I am a product of the fossil record that was laid in the dust of my
grandmother’s heart when it broke after she laid him to rest in the coffin.
I learned from her example; now when I kiss men it’s with
a loaded shotgun between my teeth so when our mouths touch
I’ll be the first one to get blown up instead of having the man leave me
just like my grandfather left my grandmother before his time.
There is pride in survival- that’s why smokers’ lungs turn black
like a funeral dress whenever they inhale.
That’s why my grandmother has my grandfather’s memory
pinned to her chest like butterfly wings on a bulletin board.
As a child whenever anyone would ask me, What do you want to be
when you grow up,? I would always respond with Dead.
Then when I saw a real dead person lying in my grandpa’s coffin,
I changed my answer to Surviving.
Because no number of birthmarks or saved moth wings
can ever erase the stain that a loved one leaves behind.