Human Archipelago

Janine Joseph

               Because my child

will be called an anchor

               with hands at its throat,

                         every month

it fans like dry rice bumped

                                     from its sack.

                         It fans from clouds

               down a mountain


with snow. A cone

                         of continental deposit.

                                                  It rebounds light

                         like an ammolite


                                                                           It fans like a root.

Like paint pulled by a brush over

an edge.

                         It branches like a line;

               it sinks

                         like a crater on a graph.

It waves like a name                    away,

with my hand.                             A land bridge

               dispersed from my body

                                                  into water.

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