BY RYN JO
I was born in floodwater,
a flash-lit, pillow-padded coat
closet. Born fearing green
sky, the red corn combine
revolving,
teeth. Born spitting
shot back onto
a paper plate. Mother
taught me to dowse.
Watched from the wood porch,
raw-heeled girl
running with a forked branch
down a path
of wild violets.
When I came shrieking
from the hornets, mother
blew smoke and said God.
All your youth, white sage rising
from a cereal bowl.