Seams

I drink my coffee slowly down the side of the cup, leaving stains that remind me of a friend’s
concentric mountain tattoos that have never remininded me of mountains.

I like the language of body modifications or “body mods.”

I think it might be relieving to have a body perfectly equipped for some function, like a
dandelion or an argonaut octopus.

Sometimes, I consider cutting my breasts off.

Sometimes, I think if I peel off enough layers, I’ll take the shape I’m supposed to come in.

I think the scars under what were once thought to be breasts are like strikethroughs.

Beautiful also.

I long to pierce my nipples.

I long to let them strikethrough or even underline.

My mother says nipple piercings prevent breastfeeding.

I am not sure I want to be a feeder or to feed.

Maggie Nelson taught me how to watch a mouth for hazards and Violeta Parra
stitched a movement from her sickbed.

And so I am inspired by the craft of motherhood.

I briefly take up embroidery.

I think of it as stitching.

I want to attach things to other things, to graft connections where none were before.

Instead, I find myself skipping over the surface like a stone, sinking my needle deep and letting it
hang there.

I ache and practice hollowing out my chest.

I am guilty of feeling myself cut from the tradition of creation: I worry at the ripping of my
seams.

Somehow, I learn to believe this: breasts are not prerequisites for sewing and motherhood
too is a series of complicated motions.

I begin to map a space that sends its arm out and through womanhood.

I practice speaking and hear my name spoken back to me. I stitch

myself along these lines.

Drawing joints together, I make them real.