wildscape. literary journal

Black Sheep
by Chandra Persaud

My foremothers believe there isn't a wound they cannot sew, masters 
            of braiding life’s frays between their fingers. They are 

women with the same fierceness of their goddess who sprung
            from earth to save it when no one else could. My foremothers,
	
standing up to life like golden tridents, daring
            it to bend them without a good fight. I’ve feared my whole life

the resiliency bestowed to my foremothers somehow 
            bypassed me. I imagine they kiss their teeth and stiffen

their jaws that I crack open. If they beheld all of me, they would
            be confused– the daughter who loses appetite easily 

over roadkill, stays in a stained sweater some days, sits too long 
            in silence, cries fiercely over a ballad. I worry

my flesh is not like theirs. I can’t quickly decimate life's 
            metaphorical redwoods, or take three giant laps 

across grief. I can’t clear a path overnight, claim 
            what’s mine like a menacing storm. Most days, 

I’m caught between the firings of my synapses and all I can do
            is wear my wounds bandaged. (I cannot sew.) I worry

my foremothers would be convinced my heart is paper mache 
            because most days, all I can do is rip into a patch of earth,  

crawl in, send currents down my chin. Plant sunflowers 
            in my navel, and pray they grow. 

about the author // Chandra Persaud