Your mother kneeled before you, pressing her palm
to chest.
From pictures, she only knew the mountains
in Norway. You didn’t tell her
the wind smelled like fire when snow blazed,
shivering in your spiked boots.
She only knew the rivers in Iceland. You didn’t
tell her when clear waves died with the low tide,
when you fell to your knees, heaving,
and you blacked out while your fingers turned
to sand, turned to water.
Still your mother cupped your cheeks, expecting you
to breathe.
Rachael Crosbie (she/they) tweets things about She-Ra and The Princesses of Power, cats, and her fiance. She has poems forthcoming or published in ALL GUTS NOT GLORY, Dead Fern Press, Wrongdoing Magazine, and others. Also, they have two chapbooks forthcoming in April: Swerve (2021) and MIXTAPES (2021).
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