Poetry by Amy Thatcher

     Minka CC




Virtuosic 


When I was born, 
my mother cried. 
I cried back, 
her best
supporting actress.
Theatrics were easy,
and I was thirsty 
for experience,
felt my way bare-
handed along 
the unsound back-
stage of childhood
where I sat ready, 
like a difference,
to be discovered.




​
Saints of Slight Power 


Poor girls have a leg up 
on holiness. The exchange 
rate for pain works in our favor. 
We see the kind-eyed 
Mary statue’s neck
pulse when we pray 
for the dolorous souls 
in purgatory, that suburb 
where time disappears
like the bodies 
of unwanted children, 
gone before they knew it. 
Hallowed be our names,
making margarine sandwiches 
lucky with catsup, stuffing 
our wonder-less bras 
with tissues, hurling 
our bodies like ashtrays 
toward men who would break 
them. We see God’s drop 
of blood and raise him 
one. ​



​

Amy Thatcher is a native Philadelphian where she works as a public librarian. Her poems have been published in Guesthouse, Bear Review, Rhino, SWWIM, Palette Poetry, The Shore, Crab Creek Review, and others. Her work has been nominated for Best New Poets 2024 and is forthcoming in The Journal and Denver Quarterly.