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by G.G. Silverman

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mother only feeds

on bones

because she is

  wounded,    

 

untrained,

     we regurgitate

what can’t

be consumed,

our mouths

ill-formed

 

she grows thin,

lies in her

bed speaking tongues,

shades drawn.

 

we clasp our hands

at her feet,

waiting for her

reprisal, waiting

 

for her to stand

and

swallow

the sun

---

G.G. Silverman writes speculative fiction and poetry from just north of Seattle. She was a finalist for the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund for feminist writing, among other honors, and her work has appeared in StrangeHouse Books, Psychopomp, Speculative City, Corvid Queen, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, The Seventh Wave, Molotov Cocktail, and more. She is currently at work on a short story collection as well as a poetry collection. To learn more, please go to www.ggsilverman.com.

 

 

 

 

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