by Gabriella Mather
against already-browned sheets
remembering whole skin
petals or fins
either falling or rippling
either nature’s or man’s;
then, like wheels turning in the wind
swayed by spring’s cool storms
hardened and pacified,
you lashed my mind
and I could not respond.
Torn brain matter clouding,
running rivulets down already-brown hair.
met anyway, every day,
in between the bleedings.
Collapsing myself, I crumble vows
like old newspapers
while cornflower-blue eggs pop in the heat.
You took me out of the sun,
you scorned me
The interrogation of a teenager begins—
I love you, but…young lady…Under our roof.
Hacking out hackneyed clichés
having lost any wealth of meaning.
The expected expertise of a parent
means little to her.
She who never knows what she wants—
but knows precisely what she doesn’t want.
The implication here:
she doesn’t want her inaptitude on display.
Ritalin doesn’t do homework.
Meth-ill-fen-i-date. What a malicious turn of events—
a ludicrous belief that wealth
is some sort of savior. Dr. Spock knows
the pendulum swings on psychopathic wings
Sy-ko-path-ick. Violent social behavior.
Violet so shell beehive your.
Gabriella Mather has recently graduated with her B.A. in English with a concentration in Creative Writing at the University of South Alabama. When she’s not learning about Princess Olga of Kiev and writing poetry, she enjoys playing piano, cooking international food, and spending time with her family. She hopes to obtain a Master’s degree in the near future, preferably as a reading specialist.