The Origin of Nerves

My right hand does not belong to me. It is the color
Of the ulcers in my mother’s womb. It is crushing
The nerves in preparation for her inevitable hysterectomy.
It is wondering what went wrong in that pregnant pause,
What premature neurons pressed cave art into the back of its
Unnatural wing blades.

When I was born--
They didn’t know my right hand belonged to the sea .

We play in parallax, my right hand says,
Your lover is a constellation and mine is a
Tuning fork building Eves in the sky. This sky
Was her uterus but this sky cannot contain her,
Exists inside of her, breathes straight through her.
Oh baby Exodus, This sky does not belong to her.

My right hand is the siren drowning your
Child in the kiddy pool. It is leaving hair
In your kitchen sink. It spits blood at the
Gorgon’s feet. My right hand cuts itself off
From the heartbeat to return to the cliffside,
Look out over the sea where it’s wife hung
Herself by the knots of her thick black braid.
It is singing the swing of affection unrequited,
It is jumping into the water to reclaim genesis.
We will be beautiful, my right hand says,
But to be a romantic you must first overcome
Your fear of romance. Press your face into my
Dress, baby. Learn how to breathe.

by Autumn Christian

Autumn Christian lives in Texas with a set of polished cow skulls on her mantle and a backyard full of poisonous blue Texas state flowers. She can't write poetry.