Mother gives birth to me a second time. Pulls me
out from her center, limp, upward, a bed expelling
 
its sheets. There’s an embrace, carefully tiled
like a floorboard, read open like a palm, the note
 
I left because I was supposed to. Mother will stretch
herself over me like new layers of skin, carve my stomach
 
like a biology project. Let the stems of dandelions sprout
from playground scabs. When it rains, I may imagine
 
the sound of her teeth falling out of place.