Sunday Morning

Updated: Jun 9

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.




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