Dead weight makes me a mother, and I carry it like a limb
It will not be amputated because it is more of a living thing
than I, though I coil beneath like a body with post-mortem spring.
My landfill womb believed the myth that there would be spring.
It dredged brackish depths for the black faith to walk that limb
and froze waiting in winter, writhing into stillness like a made thing.
I cradle death like a baby— so quiet! hardly murmurs a thing!
It is from me, from my grave, from my breast’s parched spring.
Dead, but heavy, poised without moving a single frozen limb.
Limbs are but things. Most things die without the spring.
by BRIANA M. FONTE / contributing writer