Melissa Ho
Confession
I know what a daughter is. I love the way I know what a daughter is. In every dream
I’m pregnant with my sister. I know how to crack an egg: one knock, trickle, belly
seeping dead yolk. My body sometimes looks like a small boy’s, which means
my violence dresses up as shame. In every dream I balloon into a flock of birds.
My first language fries my mouth into a sour shape, which means I am naked
without the adjective to prove it. Beautiful deaths are just muscles failing muscles.
To be a mother: I owe you nine lives, and then one. My body looks like a small girl’s.
I did not know how to kill you until I learned its choreography. My future sister gives me
candy that glitters in my suitcase. My body balloons and shrinks. In every dream the girl
memorizes me through my see-through umbrella. I tear the shells from my stomach,
cord trailing.
Melissa Ho is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. Her poems have appeared in Wildness, SOFTBLOW, decomP, and elsewhere, and she has been recognized by The National YoungArts Foundation, The Poetry Society of the United Kingdom, and The Academy of American Poets, among others. She lives in New York City.