my mother’s family is from
the hills of tennessee—or maybe
bluegrass kentucky, i never
really knew. she always talked about
grandma’s house—another thing i
didn’t know—and how the family
would gather there
so i guess that’s why we’re in
some state where the grass flows like
water and my voice sounds so
out of place. everyone’s eyes are
red rimmed and don’t look directly at
me, while my mother sits on the far end
of a rotted pew bench and smirks at
fake pleas to god and prayers to
save grandmama’s soul—
skeleton heads and taxidermy line
the walls of my cousin’s uncle’s
grandpa’s double wide. they pass
clear punch in solo cups while
we sit with wood panelled walls to
our backs.
my mother laughs with
coyotes and wraps snakes
around her wrists. even her
own family is afraid of
her predator’s gaze—i
puff my chest out with pride:
become animal.
some boy who is
related to me by blood or
skin or spit pokes at a
dark mound marring
this southern dirt. he tells
me it’s dead. i tell him
we all are.
i pick up
the carcass and eat it—
picking my teeth with
the bones
Emma Townsend is a two-time children’s book author and published poet. She recently graduated from Purdue University and is now completing her Master’s degree in Library and Information Science. Emma loves poetry that connects with one’s past and typically alludes to her own life experiences in her work.
Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson
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