I think I smothered your child
in the quiet churn, muzzled
her tiny African mandible in the mucous
of my undone motherhood. I braided

the black cables of her hair into bone
marrow, burned her fingernails to crust,
crushed the song of ashen atoms twisting
in the thimble of her throat. I wanted

you to save her, to hear her when
you mined me. I was only silence
for you to plumb, air too thin
to womb for your songs. When you stab

a brittle matchbox with a staff
of dynamite, something is sure to burn.