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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch

Mother Blue

Lot’s wife

atrophied into what we are made from--

swirl of amniotic water

salt dried in sun.

Mary always wears blue.

Navy, cerulean, deep seawater

swathe her in the color

of our tears. Mothering pity.

Lovely, painted Pieta.

My mother waited for us,

shot thick liquid into her stomach

and saw our clear eggs multiply

on a flickering screen.

Sometimes I wonder if

A baby on my chest

covered in my afterbirth

will make me come alive as I always am

or will it sink me somewhere?

Coming into this world crying

and going out of it like a sudden pouring

of salt

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