Issue #54



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Emily Thmpson

I come from my mother but I have my father’s ears; bigger, longer, droopier

In them I carry the weight of her vulnerability.

The sounds of old doors slamming in her face, racial slurs

“Oriental is a type of rug,” their words echo in my 


I can hear her parents slurred arguments, circulating in our

Eardrums. They died before I was born.

I don’t have my mother’s ears but 

I have her black eyes, stubby nose, rapid heart.

Her uterus was mine, it’s only inhabitant.

We used to live together 

As one.

Except for the twin I should have been;

I came with two sacs.

Would they have had my mother’s ears?

I didn’t receive them but you should have.

Despite this, I can still hear the


She wasn’t a 

Boy, but she should have been.

We are both ‘should have been’s but she had was forced to keep

Silent. Never heard, just a girl.

“You are my baby girl,” her words always echo in my 


Remember us on the water?

Grow Up