Paranormal Womb

She has an obsession with nuclear darknessand keeps her money in the Bible.A belly ring flops unhappily on my origin.Her hair tied up with a bandana,my mother predicts the blackness of all vision.Go play my numbers, she says.She hands me cash from 1 Corinthians 13,the part where all childish things are put away.

      The ancient Romans had a phrase—“horror vacui.”      Means fear of emptiness, fear of space.      The doctor traces his fingers along the keloid      web on her back. Mighty, girl.      You sure can buck. He points to a spiral      just above her hips. He asks, Is that      16th Street Baptist Church or the fist of a man you once trusted?

She stirs at the stove. I don’t say a wordwhen her cigarette ash falls into the food.Nicotine has become everything we taste.The food does the talking. She slides her knifeharshly over the yams when they ask if she knowswhat it’s like to lie on a river and not drown.Her kitchen yawns and rolls over. Swallow me,and feel a dopamine blowback, the smoke says,whispering gold-dusted goddamnit in my ringing ears.

      We drive on a blinding road. Faceless, winged      creatures splatter against the windows. Where      are we going? I ask. But my mother is convinced      she’s gone nowhere in forty years and never will.