Momma says my hair is so long. She wishes hers 

still grew this dense. Momma says I get it from 

her. That I should be proud the river rips through 

four day old grease and says, calm down child, 

this is the way the mouth flows into the gully. 

Taste the murky clay beneath her rage 

and remember how soft it remains. How 

unstoppable we convince ourselves to become 

when the sky is just right. I think about how 

a woman once told me how much easier it would be 

for her if I were a snail she took care of

as a child rather than a lover of sorts. Momma asks 

if it would be easier if I were full of expectation 

but what is there to expect anymore. This body 

in this place. Everything about it has tried to push 

me out yet I remain the hills full of dripping 

thunder and ancestors wading through the creek.