Once pushed through the slick
opening of mother to suck
cold hospital breath,
pencil boxes
and the smell of crayons should be easy.
opening scabby knees on sidewalks,
ripping limbs on tree bark
novels about reckless women opening their thighs,
paperback caricatures,
I will be opening
windows to climb through.

But what can prepare me:
your mouth opening against me,
myself, like gills of a fish
to breathe you,
you, opening further
the balled fist of me
petal by petal,
like opening a tin can,
a grapefruit,
a paper fan.

No closing
after this. No push back to tree house,
Unclosing, this is my own.

Melissa Williams