Stillbirth, Yemoja

— Logan February

In my language there is no translation
for mismatch and no word for membrane.

Skin translates to flesh translates to body.
A person is bound so they are heavier.

The cohesion is an only friend.
I am the kind of man who is a feather.

I spill myself and come unstuck.
Whole makes parts. Parts do not make whole.

Whole is missing something.
The cohesion does not know me—

the kind of man who wants to be
the kind of woman who bears children

that sound like birds
when they cry.

There is a word for rebirth
but it connotes the aftermath

of a sticky death. A body is bound
so it sinks when it drowns.

I am unsure that I have enough names


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