Self-Portrait as a Child locked in Darkness

I sit swaddled in urine & mother’s
blanket waiting to suckle on her rotting nipples.
disgust has a distinct hue, is
a grief
I cannot afford.
we have been here three days
in this well, my voice thinner than fishing line
ululations, useless unable to float, to
reach for a passing ear.
I do not know how we got here all I remember
is a yelp yanking me out of a dream—was
in a chameleon’s belly & watched it munch a rainbow
name itself the origin of colour— mothers are soft landings
in my lineage. she broke her neck as she hit
the water. I sprained an ankle…

the most colourful parts
of our lives
are unlived.