Poetry by Gabrielle Martin
Imaginary Babies
my children will not let me live alone -
and, like old women they
titter tatter up and down the blue veins in my feet
rivers, oceans high tide comes so soon
i keep looking for them under every shoal, the rocks,
the underside of my patella but no,
this marrow won’t make free:
an unwanted cockroach
in an old shoe.
"i don’t like surprises" my mother tells me
over decaf coffee drowning in milk.
unexpected (as i was),
i am quiet this time
i do not mention
the beating of their hearts
i can hear them
i could cast a spell:
gingerbread house, open scar, unleavened bread
wound
my thighs slap when i walk
chafe till they churn and bleed
my children lap up the blood
my children wait to feed
could a mother be so proud
echoes
the night
a frying pan
a cracked egg
my children will not let me live alone -
and, like old women they
titter tatter up and down the blue veins in my feet
rivers, oceans high tide comes so soon
i keep looking for them under every shoal, the rocks,
the underside of my patella but no,
this marrow won’t make free:
an unwanted cockroach
in an old shoe.
"i don’t like surprises" my mother tells me
over decaf coffee drowning in milk.
unexpected (as i was),
i am quiet this time
i do not mention
the beating of their hearts
i can hear them
i could cast a spell:
gingerbread house, open scar, unleavened bread
wound
my thighs slap when i walk
chafe till they churn and bleed
my children lap up the blood
my children wait to feed
could a mother be so proud
echoes
the night
a frying pan
a cracked egg
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Gabrielle Martin is a Temple University graduate currently living in Philadelphia. Originally from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, much of her formative years were spent shucking corn. She loves Martian wind and terrible coffee. Her work can be found in Hyphen, Insert Lit Mag Here, and A Literation. Find her on Twitter @crabbygabie.
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