for thirty years, i’ve noticed a ritual around the fine silk nightgowns i fold with precision and the sullied, red fevers of blood moons three times a year now, i let myself slip from the sick air of sleeping children and fall silent – a lost pilgrim swallowed by night, choking on lilacs (från månsken kan kvinnor gro) i breathe only by the apple trees, fingers bathed in redness – trickling, slowly down the first scar from my first born son, still god, i beg of you: undo the sin of mother eve. i feel it under my fingernails as i tie ribbons into the braids of my daughters; a sour breath down my neck when husband returns home yes, i may seem domesticated but mother danced herself wild was that her punishment? for wanting a touch, a child or a little bit of blood? an echo, her face greets me in the mirror (så vacker att klockorna stannar) or am i the one to blame for cherry-liquor rotting in the dry dry summer mouths of men? for picking up the pen? for having conceived a vision of myself, long before he painted flesh with nightshade and violets? (kära mor, dina fotspår var för djupa) nowadays, i pour into pages the runic script of stomachs i’ve seen; on paper, a hymn lingers ancient as silence, lit by kerosene i eat apples with my women, cheeks red like russian dolls any snake in my garden, i behead with a shovel. Hannah Brydges is a 19-year-old writer from Stockholm, Sweden. Besides writing poetry, her interests include dancing, bouldering and listening to folk rock. You will most likely find her wandering the forest in a white dress. This is her debut poetry publication. Comments are closed.
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