Mother, I gave birth to an island

one

In hindsight, I should've known
when my thighs split open
into longitudes and latitudes
that I gave birth to an island.

It breached my intestines
to roll down my body
pulling the seams of my sanity
and finally
without hesitance
cry.

I remember thinking to myself,
shouldn't I be the one to scream?
I tried hard, I really did
but the island remained a singularity

When the weeks passed, I planted a seed
in hopes that there will be someone
or something
to land upon them
but every year I come back
and find the land barren.

I heard about countries, flourishing and in war,
their noises in the breeze
when they ask me about mine,
I jump off the cliff, back into the sea.

I have lost track of time,
and certainly everything about this island is very dear to me.
I can stumble blind across these rocks, the edge of the hill,
and the garden of fuchsia in the middle
and still, be sure not to tumble down a gulf.

I go and come back.
Every year I plant a fresh seed
and every year I hope
to remember something else,
other than the sand in my belly and water in my ears.