Eight AM, I wake in my father’s home with my mother in my chest. My chest (filled with my run-away money & my goodbye notes & my hidden crinkled pictures of us) that I forgot at her house & accidentally left open on my windowsill. My windowsill cluttered with her books & her sentiments & her slowly dying plants I seldom watered. Seldom watered like the city's cold concrete gardens & our deserted affections & I always stared at them, the plants, wondering when the leaves would finally fall, like I, the apple. The apple, like I, fell in her shadow, still plump & ripe with inherited aspirations. Inherited aspirations being the unknown beginnings & untimely ends & unforeseen middles. Unforeseen middles being “I’ll see you tonight!” to “I’ll see you next week,” to “Will I ever see you again?” & lastly, our infinite unspoken grievances. Unspoken grievances & faded, calloused garden hands & finally leaving, like she had, to wake
with our mothers in our chests at eight AM.
With My Mother in My Chest. My Chest
More by Sawyer Fell
-
To Relive or to Remember
There was a vacant bathroom outside the church park.
I crawl in beat, destitute, feeding off the radiant waves.
I stare into a warped mirror punched by drunken twilight boys, -
In Knowing You, For But a Moment
On the porch, with grooves of woven twine
embedded into the underbelly of my thighs,
I sit and listen intently for you. My ears perked,
with unruly fire-streaked hair tucked behind them, -
Emily Dickinson, What Did You Feel?-
When you languidly grazed hands with a Woman,
had you seen your reflection in Her irises?
Had you wished you could drown in that yearning black void?
Comments
The circular quality of this piece serves only to strengthen it. Each of your words feels carefully chosen and crafted, with a great measure of intention behind them.
Thank you so much, Anna!! I'm glad you noticed the loop :)
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