The Life of a Cell
In my parents’ first house
termites gathered,
the floorboards opening to a circle
of jaws, that certain
proximity required for one kind of creature
to make illness in another.
Inside my mother, my father fell
into a deep sleep.
A decade of wet wood
pressed its mouth to theirs.
It takes a million gods
to create a single mercy.
My mother opened
her legs, prayed to only Allah.
Shared, rented,
occupied, my mother breathed
so hard it rained
through the roof.
I scurried from her,
a splinter
between my teeth.
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash
