Your mother asks, do you believe
yourself. You point to god and say,
at least I have a shadow.
If only those are blessed,
who do not see, what happens
when you touch yourself?
Your mother says, it’s only natural.
You point to your skin and say,
the wind I was dragged across
unhooked itself from a turbine,
blew the the ears of corn
out of the field’s wet face.
She asks, why you don’t want to be
a mother and you cut yourself
a pylon to cradle,
call for the black birds to sit
on your wrists. Electric, noon
and neon.
She looks at you like your body
is more air than image. You didn’t know
she could hold her breath that long.
You say, most days I have
to hold myself.
Your mouth still on its own fence;
white picket teeth on white picket teeth.
Nadine Klassen is a German poet, living in her hometown with her boyfriend and dog. Her work has appeared in Emotional Alchemy, Wild Roof Journal and others. When not writing poetry, she likes to crochet sweaters with puffy sleeves or write songs instead. You can find her on Instagram as @nadineklassen.writer
