Adamantine I am a mother, but I do not know it yet. Every night I am aborting reveries that just didn’t quite die. Things are constant in me. Stalks plume and cramp, stuffed infants, pushing against all my edges, thinning. Translucency is incidental to all this. Veins blossom like roots, every nick shows; what I carry, sloshes, as though about to spill. Leaks spring, when I go to move things or put my back into it. Squeeze me, I’m silent til the pop. Pluck a hair from me I’ll hemorrhage. I am anemic in my embrace. Meager and feeble as a dried rose. But I can’t die. I’ve tried. Through countless items I have collected a trunk of suicides unfinished. Dreaming once, I saw a church, that didn’t hurt when I kneeled down. Before the cleanse was cast, I woke. Every night I attempt to go back. So I may finish what began. Never do I make it there. I fall into the holy font. I drown. It’s painful. I don’t die.
“Adamantine” was first published in The Stray Branch November 2017. This is its first time appearing on this blog or anywhere else.