The moment of inheritance. On my hands and knees I hex the big bang, the making of a molten
ocean that quakes below my feet. By now everything looks frosted and still from afar. As if this
is the calm, yet the veins continue to bleed and branch. Droplets jump across the map. From
birth the burn is slow, the doctor cooed, “From what river did you flow?” The crackle of baby’s
blue fire muffled the answer so they gave us each a white wrap, like a bandage or a wedding
dress. Never mind the specifics, the casing was too taught and the seam ripped right down the
middle. My innards spilled out their royal blue gore. How it creeps out my body, how it slithers
across the floor. Who once told me that there never was a bag to hold the cat, much less from
which it could be let out? But now, just sway with me, darling. Take a load off, our heels and
waists cracked and cobalt from endless nights of rehearsals before and before and before.
My favorite souvenir is filled marginalia. I once found a book of poetry from the 1930s in a used bookstore in Michigan with an entire personal letter bordering several of the poems.
Rebecca Teich studies English at Columbia University. Her writing, both creative and expository, has been featured in BigThink, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, the Advocate, Gambling The Aisle, and 4x4. She is the co-Editor-in-Chief for the Columbia Journal of Literary Criticism and works as an assistant instructor for children's writing workshops.