Emily Corwin


I surfaced from the pot like a bobbing apple, a first squishy vertebrate.
the afterbirth ladled into goblets—tart sip, vinegar. they swaddled me up
—cheesecloth over my nubs, tentacles flinching in a dry world. and so I
was made, pickled with the best ingredients and brought writhing into the
crust. they prepared for me a crib, a sugar cube, a pocket mirror in which
to study myself—fine specimen—to watch the big show as I turned into
pink, into legs and breast tissue, still thirsty—limbs basting in the tub.

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