Poem by Holli Carrell 






I’m thinking of my mother snapping
the Hershey’s Bar into pieces. 

Without our fathers the woods were woods
more wild and fitting,

our mothers practically kissing,
overwhelmed to be heard.

Mine places a pot of beans on a picnic table,
on my mitten,

gives my brother his sucking
bottle of pearl, and places a blanket on my lap

to keep me from leaping.
The autumn light was whiter then.

Braids, braids,
the wind’s machinery,

and a boy who eats only ketchup. 
I still don’t care for the taste

of marshmallow, 
but pulling it off the stick, I liked that:

the delicacy simple
like Bible pages burnt. 

Later, up the tiny hill, 
I sit on the leaves and wet myself.

I didn’t want to go to the outhouse. 
I was too pleased being unnoticed

up there
watching everyone. 

In this light, 
my pupil is as wide and as bent 

as a sunflower. 
The water on the glass is frantic

static television, and beyond
the tea kettle finishes

fast and hot within its own storm.