Drowning in uncried
packed beneath
my chin,
like the male frogs
who incubate their
young, holding them
in the moist womb
of the throat,
swollen with descendents.
I have realized
I have none.
It is the past I carry,
not the future.
Not on purpose,
it grows back,
like the tree
I chopped back,
which there was
no room for.
Congested lymph
is what the doctors
call it,
everything I have
not been able
to clean out,
get rid of.