my head. I don’t know how I know what to do. It’s a mystery. There’s some knowledge we simply arrive with. In my case, there’s this, and a smattering of poetic scansion. No blank slate after all. I bring that same hand to my cheek, and slide farther along the muscular wall of the uterus to reach down and find the cervix. It’s a tight squeeze against the back of my head. It’s there, at the opening to the world, that I delicately palpate with puny fingers and immediately, as if some spell has been uttered, the great power of my mother is provoked, the walls around me ripple then tremble and
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