Birth might be this.
Not the centrifugal force of the womb,
garden from which I was unearthed,



but the moment when my mother left,
the house covered in a shroud of light,
and her things echoing of her skin,
fainter, fainter.

“Ultimate Cause,” ELISA DIAZ CASTELO 

Come hear more of Elisa’s poetry TOMORROW at Bar Thalia (95th & Bway)