Nobody told me that my daughters would hunger for blueberries, fresh shrimp, spaghetti carbonara with all the cream: all the eggs: all the bacon: all the freshest parmesan. My single mom budget, the budget of boxed Mac-n-Cheese: Chef Boyardee: 3-for-a-dollar Ramen: the generic brand of Pop-Tarts, unfrosted. Nobody told me that they would sneak out of their rooms at night to meet friends in our small-town cemetery: ignore the nightly curfew siren. Write their names in wet cement: run from cops like feral animals with no remorse. Nobody told me that they would refuse to wear what had been passed down. Refuse to clean out the dirty dishes from beneath their beds: unapologetic in the face of a small symphony of mold that emerged from the cereal milk: attached its tempo to the only scarf I ever knit by hand. That they would sneak into the basement: spray paint a pentagram to summon demons in exchange for enough money to buy the sparkly purple Doc Martens. My God: how they burned down everything. Burned it down & rescued me from the fire. Carried me on their angry shoulders to show me my power: refused to let me swallow another drop of man-made pain. Unafraid to stand at the edge of their own graves: knowing that love is dangerous/love is untamed.
When the Crossword Answer Was Grapes but All I Could Think of Was Graves
Beth Gordon is a poet, mother and grandmother in Asheville, NC. She is the author of five chapbooks, including The Water Cycle (Variant Lit) and The First Day (Belle Point Press); and one full length collection, This Small Machine of Prayer (Kelsay Books). Her second full-length collection, Alchemist or Arsonist, is forthcoming from Acre Books in 2027. Beth is Managing Editor of Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Assistant Editor of Animal Heart Press, and Grandma of Femme Salve Books. Instagram, Threads and BlueSky @bethgordonpoet.