6/12/2018 Poetry By Rachael Gaythe psychiatrist tells my mother The psychiatrist tells my mother she has not failed, even though her children are broken. For once she is credited as the bonesetter despite our limbs shattered while in her direct line of sight. Don’t they know that our genes arrived ragged, full of holes that no amount of winter mending can patch up. Our brains light up in entirely the wrong way. Valleys of darkness where there should be a brightened skyline shrinking away into withered nothingness, effervescent reds bleed into languid blues. My mother has never called herself an artist but look at the vibrant mural she’s painted inside our rattling skulls. Look at how she sculpted us from fragments retrieved from in between stained sheets and drug down stairs smashed to bits from the slightest exposure to the uncaring outside. We are fragments pulled together with scotch tape lovingly puzzled together during commercial breaks. My therapist once theorized that my mother is without any identity other than her children’s sickness but look at how she creates while holding onto a wrongly guilty conscience. The psychiatrist tells my mother she is not responsible and on the outside she smiles and nods but on the inside she doubts and she doubts and she doubts Bio: Rachael Gay is a poet and artist living in Fargo, North Dakota. Her work has appeared in Quail Bell, Rag Queens, Déraciné Magazine, Eunoia Review, Daily Gramma, Literary Orphans, FreezRay Poetry, Bitterzoet Magazine, The Bookends Review and others. More of her work can be found at witchinghourpoetry.tumblr.com. Comments are closed.
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
December 2024
Categories |