My grandmother grew up in a tribe where the men had to walk
all the way into the ocean before even holding a woman’s hand.
In my childhood the winters were so deep the snow went over my head
when I walked outside, the snowflakes forming a language
between the layers of my skin that could be translated
into a single word: home. Even now I wonder at what point a person
becomes a new person- when half their cells are replaced,
or at a point before that? Will I ever be the same person I was
when I longed to be buried beneath the snow?
For some strange reason even today, even at nineteen,
I dip my toes in the nearest body of water before looking at a man,
let alone slipping him my number. In bed when I lay my head on his chest,
I swear I can almost hear the waves crashing against the walls
of his stomach. If there were a time machine that would allow
the participant to fast-forward to their own death,
I would be the first to press the green Go button.
No, it’s not technically suicide if I don’t leave a note.
I just want to be the type of person my grandmother
would have been proud of, the type of person I will never be,
no matter how many of my cells are replaced.