MY MAMA WAS A FIREBIRD AND THAT MAKES ME A FLAME
thunder behind the moon again,
blocking out the light.
my trauma has legs that carry it back to my chest
even after i push it out of the car
back on a dirt road behind the church.
sap in my mouth again
so i gag and spit at the taste,
can’t seem to let it touch my tongue
for fear of drawing tears.
i struck a match in your mama’s basement
and your ghost blew it out
before the light got a chance to burn itself
into my eyes.
anyways, the cellar lit up like the dead trees
lining the old woman’s property, faerie ring
of fire and brimstone and all that.
the old well in the clearing reminds me of
that time i got in the bathtub fully clothed
and you pinched the skin behind my ear
to make me wake up.
i ate berries with my fingers for stain
and biked down a gravel road until
the heat peeled my skin from my bones
and the tires went flat, stuck full
of pine pins and needles.
the sound of the wind makes my knees
feel crocheted, loose bits of thread
hugging the air for the treasure taste;
it’s not in my cards to be a burning girl
but still i tuck wood under my shirt.
my trauma has legs
that kick their way up my throat.
my mama was a sword eater and even she
had to spit it out.
Mallory Pearson is a 21-year-old painter, jeweller, and poet currently living in Brooklyn, NY. She has a great interest in spirituality, sexuality, and femininity, and spends most of her time quickly getting bored of new hobbies.