Lindsay Young
UNTETHERED
I tripped acid for the first time two weeks after my mother was buried
Spent a full day in bed as just
A body
A skin bag of veins
And heart And veins And skin And question
Forgot how to shower naked. Got hot under all that water
And almost drowned
Held help just to use the bathroom. Doubled over
For comfort
Sick at the thought of food, but too afraid to vomit
I remember my mother. The shame shaped around
How her body betrayed her. How she was forced
To spend a full day inside it, the only thing between it
And the floor, being my arms. How that day replaced itself
For an entire year. How she managed to stay more alive
Than her own flesh
There’s a moment when I realize
A body is
Just a body
The walls breathe in agreement that I am barely here
Only tethered by this pulsing skin of mine. So fresh
And so fragile, I can cut it open right now and leave it
Exactly where I stand
Sometimes I want to
All the time I can’t
There’s a moment when I realize
My mother is not dead
She’s just left her body
Outgrown it. Grown so big her skin burst
Into doorway. Made room for her to pass
To a lighter place. A place not so disgusting
Not so always dying, not so dependent
On a weaker thing keeping her
Alive. My mother
Lays on my chest in this dark room
Slows my heartbeat to hospital beep
And for a moment, I can touch her again
Bodies no longer in the way
Just me,
My mother
Singing so steady
I don’t need to be
Here anymore