Deposition
This is how it was: an improvised knife
made from an old screwdriver. My brother throwing
rocks at anything that would make a sound on impact.
This is how it was: my skull and a small split in the scalp.
Enough blood that my parents worried I’d need stitches.
And me all fury and clumsy. And me not crying for the pain.
And me crying out for blood. And me hungry for swallowed
up girls. And me wishing her dead. And me stupid loyal
and not giving up her name.
This is how it was: water damage and the threat of breaking.
Nylon rope sun bleached and stretched tight. My mother
in everyone else’s hands but her own.
This is how it was: everything a heartbeat. A heart a box
of blood and muscle. A structure with rooms and temporary
movement. A thing without thinking that doesn’t stop
because it thinks it can’t.
This is how it was: two strings out of tune. Outgrowing
any trap or rope or slower death.
This is how it was: we got bored enough to soften.
This is how it was: meditations on hurricanes. The naming
of unnamable things
Felicia Williams was born in Fresno and raised in San Diego. She grew up on hip hop, Zora Neale Hurston, and the electric guitar. She is a cofounder and editor at Madwoman Etc., a literary an art zine dedicated to telling stories of marginalized women in her community. Her work investigates home, family, and the weirdness of being human.