Last Motherhood I hoped for a birthing and it came— that overripe house we lived in, it secreted me. House curve-backed, coastal house nestled in shoulderblade shores. Those were the thin walls. Against them you held me, an unfulfilled lake. I was a lake-hidden turtle, sealed and moving, frantic there. Such soothing ocean-gifts you twisted into my seeking hands. You carried each little failure, tucked its curled body into a sleep-stacked bed, reminded me of time, of jugular motivation clothing my regrets. Our unheard years—no cries— times freckled with lost gifts. We were birthing remnants, not breathing. Our bed undone, these body-walls, days that had died you crystallized in bottles. Such heavy need. I've split them apart, those sap-tendrils from our long passageways of arms and legs, I’ve poured them shining onto the dust-choked streets. You are the last wound, you small beached body, so brave and so alone. Tara Menon and Lena Williams Tara  (tara.menon@coloradocollege.edu) wrote this poem using only words from five of Lena's (l_williams@coloradocollege.edu) poems.