Poetry by Rachel Mallalieu

                ​spablab CC



Lake Language

I grew up near the lake and
learned its language early.
When fish hung motionless,
I stood on the bank and placed one foot
on the ice, searching for hairline 
fractures that would splinter 
if I applied any weight.

One day when I was twelve, 
my mother threw
her head back and laughed, 
and I found 
her weak spot—the space 
where her molar wasn’t.
Her father was discreet and
rarely left visible wounds.

Yesterday, at work, I tended
to the ruined skin of a heroin addict.
I sliced and probed the tense lesion to
release infection.
When I removed my gloves,
she stared at my vein laced hands,
her eyes violent with want.
I recognize this desire for 
things you do not have.

Recently I sipped wine
and listened to my friends’ drab
complaints of motherhood--
never ending laundry and the
incessant need for wine.
I wanted to join the conversation but
couldn’t find the words.
I’d watched a man die the night before. 
It was his sixty-first birthday and
before his heart stopped, he choked
on his own blood.
Instead of speaking, I nodded 
and willed my face to kindness.

When I was young,
my mother challenged me to swim
to the middle of the lake. 
I jumped off the dock and
water lilies snagged 
my ankles. 
I floundered— 
then kicked,
refusing to be pulled under.





Eyes Open

My neighbor believes 
when a person dies with 
their eyes open, it’s because
they are waiting for someone 
who hasn’t yet come 
In a small hospital outside Philadelphia,
I helped deliver a baby, already blue
Her eyes stayed closed
   She did not wait for her mother--
whose pupils were so dilated 
from the ecstasy and cocaine 
that she wouldn’t see her child
No one wanted to hold her so
they placed her body in a basin
that was too small 
She lay curled on her side, 
each dusky fist clutching air
    A dead baby nestles beneath
    your sternum and snags your
    lungs when you 
    take a deep breath
    But I don’t get to choose 
    what I see

This is how I know 
life isn’t fair:
A pregnant mother 
checked in
She was bleeding 
and wept with expectation 
as I put her legs 
in stirrups
When I placed the speculum,
her 13 week baby spilled
into my hand with an iron
gush of blood
His eyelids were tightly fused and
rivers traversed 
his diaphanous skin
As she felt his body
exit hers
She wailed Mama
into the corners of the 
stifling room

My baby’s ocean eyes 
were open 
when my husband fished him 
from our swimming pool 
on that warm day in June
His mottled skin matched 
the sky, but 
    he was waiting for me 
I pushed his chest with
one hand
and kissed the ice of his lips 
   
And then

he pulled a jagged breath
His eyelashes trembled 
    Mama is the word 
I tell myself 
he said

​

Rachel Mallalieu is an emergency physician and mother of five. She writes poetry in her spare time. Her work is most recently featured in Blood and Thunder, Haunted Waters Press, Pulse, Nelle, Global Poemic, Rattle and Construction.

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