Oh Honey

Her chest is a railroad, honey-greased tracks, sure engine of heartbeat pumping heads of steam. On the white cloth, I lather the soap, dab the incisions, rinse the white cloth, then dab and rinse again. I declare her shoulders mine entirely, claim the twin curves of my mother's solid rump, her folds and caves, plump stomach, spill of breasts, sure muscles dividing into her slender calves, her fine-boned wrists. Because I am cut from her body the seep of my mother's wounds does not offend me. Long bend of river carved into her leg, oozing the thick sliding color of honey, a sweetness called out from the core of my mother, river of gold and all I can do not to kneel and stare, built as I am from her river of milk. Because I was pulled through a slit in her belly, I bend down to bandage my mother - her chest split from neck to navel, her leg split from ankle to crotch - clumsy with gratitude. My mother squeezes the honey paste onto my fingertips, unwinds the roll of gauze. Oh honey, she tells me, what a good job you're doing.