Mostly my neck
just always hurts
they’re heavy
never still or asleep at once
I rarely sleep myself
I feed them cat food
sometimes mice
the pet store girl is kind
looks at our shadow
wants to know their names
that they smell dead
when frightened
defecate in my brain
causing dark thoughts
My children were taken
I’ve never mothered
don’t remember my own
trauma interferes they say
she who did this—her I recall
her volatile face
writhing in hate
over a god I didn’t love
who smelled like fish and wrack
I’ve tried dating
those forms are awkward
no place to click “monster”
but I met someone anyway
and it’s okay–they’re blind
I’m used to being unseen
They want to paint my portrait
this might be exploitation
still, the scent of paint will be nice
and they’ll have to touch me
What do you think will happen
when others see the work?
Marianne Taylor is a bookseller at Powell’s on Burnside where she manages the sales floor in the Blue, Gold, and Green rooms. In a previous life she taught literature and creative writing at a Midwestern college, and her poetry has been published widely in national journals and anthologies. She once served as Poet Laureate of her former small town, but for the past three years she’s been trying to find her way around Portland.