I once was a daughter but now am glass,
was bridle, bark, bound child after
dark. I once was a daughter until I fell.
I swallowed a stone, became squall, a squint
an empty place that held your hands.
Now see the sky through silicone and ash.
I once was volcano and so were you,
sisters of violence and magma and mud.
Miasma, you blew the homes down: wolf,
pig, fire, dirt. You once lived in pink
like a myth, or a missive: I visited when I could.
I once was hospital, a howl, hoarder. Once
a beetle, begging bowl, star losing light. Because
I knew you, your speed and spread, I climbed out
of my mother’s mouth and sang in the silt.
Know me as bird, blown open too fast.
Tina Carlson is a queer poet living in New Mexico. She is the author of two previously published collections of poetry: Ground, Wind, This Body (UNM Press, 2017) and, We Are Meant to Carry Water (3: A Taos Press), a collaboration with 2 other NM poets. A Guide to Tongue Tie Surgery is forthcoming in spring 2023 from UNM Press.
