Book of Agenesis

by Valerie Tirado

Ask me where it hurts and I’ll sing
from the mouth of a dehiscent wound,
where God once thought it wise
to cleave flesh holy.
Only now, with palms pressed
against unsuturing skin,
do I recall the hour of her genesis
as if unfolding again
before me: the silverblade
nearing my flank; the piercing sharp
and flat notes of bonebreaking;
the fashioning of rib into chisel,
to etch her marrow from mine.
Only now, on the eve
of her wake, can I hear the crimson
chorus coursing from me—
Of all the ribs, why not take
from those in rungs above,
those soldered as one?
Why take from the pair
at the pit of a cage,
those ossified in exile
from their mirror halves?

Valerie Tirado is a Cuban-American writer from Miami, Florida. Her work has appeared in wildness, Bodega Magazine, and The McNeese Review’s Boudin. She currently lives in New York City, where she works in translational cancer research.