Poetry by Sarah Morris Shux

Judith Jackson CC




Our Family Is Secrets

Upon secrets
Diagnosis pushed behind couch cushions
Sisters not knowing the very worst things
That happened to each other
Anger released into hollowed out trees
With the cigarette butts
Pushing most things down deep
Then gasping when
They find their way back up through 
New roots
Through fresh skin
Through blood—wearing it, lipstick-red
Fingernails bitten too far down
“That was meant to be in the Will,
She was working on a new one right before—“
Saying “she would never understand if she knew
What really happened”
Saying
“She would be rolling in her grave if she knew—“
Knowing damn well that she is under no earth
That she was scattered
Thinking about the lack of expression for those who were
Burnt 
Saying “it should have been me”
Saying “I wish it had been me”
Saying “I will take this to the grave”
And making good on that promise

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Sarah Morris Shux is a poet, screenwriter and short story writer originally from the Adirondack Mountains and currently living in Los Angeles with her very loud Siamese cat, King Tut and her sweet black lab, Sami. She enjoys obsessing over ghost stories, bedazzling random things and spending too much money on vinyl records and weird, antique tchotchkes. Find her words published in The Paper Cult, Anti-Heroin Chic, Superfro amongst others and on Medium and Substack. Find her on social media: @awwshux on Instagram


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