The secrets I carry are not my own.
They were glued to my body by my mother
with Rubber Cement glue
to match the cement galoshes
weighing down the body
as it struggles to tread water in the ocean.
Another wave crests and pushes our face
our head under water.
We spit up
choke on the salt, brine
we need the secrets we carry
like water in our lungs.
We dunk the body under again
we baptize ourselves in the name of the
sins of the grandfather, father, mother
plunge it deep into the cold water
over and over
demand to the heavens
it be made clean
the way it was in the beginning
after the afterbirth sliding
out of my mother’s womb
was hurried away.
Tabula rasa, then the rest.