You Ask Your Birth Mom What Her Favorite Color Is (You've Never Asked Me That Question)

the chokecherry
onto which a beak
clamps feather edges
of a thousand cedar
waxwing flocks each
flock a thousand cat-
eyed birds mudrooms
you’ve clattered through
afraid to unsnap your
coat your coat except
the worn-out pockets
and elastic cuffs the skin
of grapes your birth
mom peels with her
front teeth childbirth
when bleeding won’t
subside blood
the quantity
my cupped palms
can hold that each
month removes
itself from me
the madrone falling
apart knot curled
into the core the skin
of red grapes you
peel like that too

Rebecca Morton received an MFA in poetry from Eastern Washington University. Her work appears in Atlanta Review, Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem, Storm Cellar, The Cincinnati Review, Crab Creek Review, Tupelo Quarterly, DMQ Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Seattle with her wife and children.