No One Says Kin Anymore

Mothers sometimes forget where they come from. If I say seagull, my mother sees a severed wing and a bird panicked in disbelief – sees an assemblage in a greasy parking lot, everyone circling the bird, offering bread, gauze, prayer. We sometimes take drives, my mother and I. Sometimes we try on each other's habits; I drink 3 glasses of Turkish port and she stomps on ant piles to watch them gather soil and rebuild. If mothers abandoned air and learned to braid kelp, they could be mermaids. Sometimes, when we swim together, I hold my mother's breath.