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6: Shadow Spine: What we ingest as we fret. What we dream as we heal.

photo Marcy Albin
First surgical draw took a layer of desert. Ovaries like sweet petit fours, little ovens, gone in a mouthful. Fallopian tubes harvested as if cacti sliced and fed to dairy cows to embellish their milk.

Inebriant of all poured through. Threat of rainwater torrent down arroyo at the blind curve ahead. Finally, I sleep the surprise of sticky after-taste. Prickly pear’s radish red fruit rolled into sweet jam and hard candies.


My organs leaning into the hollow that once held my daughter. Remembering estrogen spurred nutrients moving into my breasts. Valentines tinged with day’s shadow.



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