weird dreams are swallowed  

before bed with  

Lexapro and orange juice 

nausea permeates this body 

like a memory who fails to avoid me,  

stretching each limb across the

axis of my torso,

wrapping itself to form a straitjacket

or a present opened early on 

Christmas Eve

I avoid vomit

by sinking 

into my childhood bathtub, 

which reeks of Clorox and 

a vicious stand against my mother’s 

removal; she used to swim 

in this same basin, letting the water

hover just above her chin

while a newborn me wailed relentlessly

for her in the other room, until

a quiet, acute realization 

pressed itself fully 

into her chest, 

into her spine, 

into the echo chamber 

of a body that was never truly hers – 

well, I guess this is it then