Issue #54


Mother Lost Her Tongue

Mother Lost Her Tongue

Emily Story


I looked for it with 

the forgotten seashells 

because I didn’t understand 

and sometimes that isn’t the same as 

an ancient reliquary. 


Script I couldn’t read, 

left to wither from heat in an unmarked box in the attic.  

 Clutched gingerly, as if it was fragile and precious

or dirty. 


Eyes glittering like the fishing lures left to collect dust in the garage,

we got white bread and fatty chicken thighs at the grocery store.

The blood from his rare steak seeping across my plate and into my mashed potatoes.  


My black box 

adrift somewhere 

flotsam in the foam. 


Am I supposed to feel like the 

blackberry bushes?

I want to carry this 

but it is so heavy. 

This Irreplaceable Known

To Transpose