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