If I were going to hush—
the breath I’d suck
back in/ should knock you over
The breath I’d suck
should return my birth mother to me
at least her shadow
and then send me back to my original sin
like if I’d never had my first breath
my mother would still be here now; breathing
If I were going to hush—
you’d be talking
to my hand/ you’d be fixing your lips to say something/
‘bout how adopted kids are rich
and rich kids don’t get to cry; let alone twice
let alone— yearn
but I’d’ve already left
the door swinging behind me
to bump some sense into you
on my way out towards truth
because if I handle it I’ll end up alone and if I end up alone

Who really left who?

If I were going to suppress
everything
I’d offer off an operatic scream
that I know will be heard by no one
everyone, at some point, has wished I’d compartmentalize my grief
And if I were going to have it my way
you’d be ears on, mouth closed, breath submissive, compassionate. I do not yearn alone either, most’a
my siblings are fostees. When I open my mouth— out spills the truths about our poverty, our bad fate,
and my permanent gut clench at the first time my new mother tells me she’s not my only mother.
These truths ride the waves of the loud air leaving my lungs. You’d listen to give love not to simply
respond. Definitely not to tell me, Who cares, everyone knows what that’s like, you’re not special;
because I already know my family is a statistic. Certainly not to tell me they are already gone, what’s the
point in worrying about something you never had; even though I carry her face, her genes, love her other
children.
If I wanted no one to know
about my pain, my loss, my loneliness
I’d tell the cops, or the people who remember me young
whom I won’t implicate for the record
I’d tell doctors, teachers, and all the abused kids who didn’t get their “miracle new family”
so my story disintegrates in transit
from my mouth to their ears
never bleed from their pens to notebooks
never write what he said or she said or I said
my betrayal ought to inspire no new laws, no new policies and perspectives, no new love
never bring glory to all those who died the day I was born
If I wanted to disappear myself

I’d put nothing but what belongs to me that I don’t have to petition the state for
on a whale-sized ship to space
blast myself off into nothing
to be seen nor heard by no one
but God
truthfully,
They are the only witness that matters
If I were going to hide
it’d have to be regarding how hard I could really love you
I give/ only your truth/ oxygen

If I were going to hush

I’d just Bury

— though not back inside my original punishment
there are laws blocking me
from the entrance to your vagina.
According to David Tomas Martinez,
author of Post Traumatic Hood Disorders,
Vaginas are the original wound
loss bound to eternity
— the original punishment.

My mothers are sheathed/ open
like conch shells,
riddled with prickly teeth
to fence out
the healing touch of being seen and engaged with. or held. up.
And if I were going to holler
from every rooftop, milk carton, and crosswalk,
from every NICU and nursery, and Alameda County office, and at every person
wearing my scars or scars like mine
my voice should finally sting you into an exhale
and then there we’d be making noise together about truths no one wants to admit.
Now every time I holler

I demand.
Let’s talk: Getting Loud
If I were going to make a raucous
here’s a few things I’d do:
To wake up the world
I’d open my birth records
death
question why
95 of the 100 pages
prove my womb mother’s colossal failings
but only 3 questions direct a gaze at the prospective mom; not quite curiosity, more
confirmation…
1) What is your job? 2) What’s your income? 3) Do you go to church?

Why the double standard?

For Loud,
I’d befriend her, hype her up
then I’d grab her hand and march on
Tiki torches, a mighty pen, and my original name and
wanting to know everything about who, what, where, why, when —
For crying out loud, even if you can’t imagine, I will not be quiet.
Plus, God told me to find a new perspective: maybe, ‘Mother’ is an adjective not a noun.