Poem by Sara Guinn
The Qargizine, Summer 2016
She builds her home in the cramped back room
with whiskey and back pain,
and disdain for her mother.
When she gets too loud
her son is big enough now
to carry her out, hands wringing torso.
She whimpers, arms around her head,
like a mangled coat hanger.
She hates herself to sleep.
She wakes up once
facedown in dirt.
Once more, and cooks us eggs.
