Severing by Jaime Lam

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Severing
by Jaime Lam

I watched her cut watermelon in the kitchen
the way mothers just do. These days, 

I drown the daughter you had
under purpled-blackish dye and newborn secrets to 

distance. Lately, I wake to my eyes feeling wrung
despite dry. I dip my fingers into daring to dream

of a woman who would have loved teaching
me how to drive. What not to love

in a man. The warning signs of when to take a breath
and retreat back into her bridging arms. 

You make me mourn, whittling
misery into an instrument that coddles

before biting down my sounds. Some days are so
staccato. I romanticize edges—razorblades,

matchboxes, shell casings—bouquet apologies 
escalating through teeth. Too deafening for me to exist

but that is where I found a silhouette
of understanding: to mutilate is to suffer

a love like yours.

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