They say my mother climbed in the bottle
at the end. Perhaps she had ship ambitions:
the fold and rig through her narrow throat,
all her body a galleon, her arms pinned
to the prow, breasts loud and bare –
cannons set for war.

She spoke to me of a round, polished world,
but my mother sailed the horizon
time and again to prove Earth’s edges,
each three-day voyage bringing her
a little closer to the precipice.

Published in The Rialto, 2015