Melissa Ho

Confession

I know what a daughter is. I love the way I know what a daughter is. In every dream
I’m pregnant with my sister. I know how to crack an egg: one knock, trickle, belly
seeping dead yolk. My body sometimes looks like a small boy’s, which means
my violence dresses up as shame. In every dream I balloon into a flock of birds.
My first language fries my mouth into a sour shape, which means I am naked
without the adjective to prove it. Beautiful deaths are just muscles failing muscles.
To be a mother: I owe you nine lives, and then one. My body looks like a small girl’s.
I did not know how to kill you until I learned its choreography. My future sister gives me
candy that glitters in my suitcase. My body balloons and shrinks. In every dream the girl
memorizes me through my see-through umbrella. I tear the shells from my stomach,
cord trailing.