The Art of Rescue
I once dug for worms in the cold earth:
My muddy-hands holding different
meaning. Their banded, wriggling bodies—
pink and slimy—made me question
intention. There are a lot of ways
to catalog a life. What if I tell you I’m tired
of writing about fields, and earth, and toil. Some elements
are better left to remembering. But you’re standing
at its center, letting dirty grain claw at your ankles.
Sister, do not eat from it. The world
heaps its expectations on, burning
coals. We were born through stories like this,
so why are we called foreigner and wear it easy.
There is a black snake that coils in the pit
of my stomach. If I speak her name
will it give her power? I am frightening
myself when I look at the moon and find a face.
She is my sister, too—who catches
things that crawl on their bellies.
I know her like a lover, her honeyed lips.
When I lay next to her, she tossed
like a restless-animal, murmuring into her pillow.
When she cut her hand, I lapped the blood
from her body, trying to save her.
She was earth, too. And rust. The type that eats
away at empty-lawn chairs in over-grown yards.
She left her mark with long fingernails—she was once
a great cat, but she is missing
teeth. I am her mouth now.
My muddy-hands holding different
meaning. Their banded, wriggling bodies—
pink and slimy—made me question
intention. There are a lot of ways
to catalog a life. What if I tell you I’m tired
of writing about fields, and earth, and toil. Some elements
are better left to remembering. But you’re standing
at its center, letting dirty grain claw at your ankles.
Sister, do not eat from it. The world
heaps its expectations on, burning
coals. We were born through stories like this,
so why are we called foreigner and wear it easy.
There is a black snake that coils in the pit
of my stomach. If I speak her name
will it give her power? I am frightening
myself when I look at the moon and find a face.
She is my sister, too—who catches
things that crawl on their bellies.
I know her like a lover, her honeyed lips.
When I lay next to her, she tossed
like a restless-animal, murmuring into her pillow.
When she cut her hand, I lapped the blood
from her body, trying to save her.
She was earth, too. And rust. The type that eats
away at empty-lawn chairs in over-grown yards.
She left her mark with long fingernails—she was once
a great cat, but she is missing
teeth. I am her mouth now.
Tina Lentz-McMillan graduated from Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi with a Bachelors in English Literature. She was the poetry winner of the 2016 Tennessee Williams Literary Festival, and has poetry published in Louisiana Cultural Vistas, Drunken Boat, Riversedge: A Journal of Art and Literature, and The Switchgrass Review, among others.
My current work stems from the idea of “Motherhood,” and how the modern interpretation of the word has shifted to include things beyond literal mothers, whether that be another surrogate-person or environment. These things push the boundaries of mothering because they are not tethered by filial attachments, and, thus, can be interpreted in surprising ways.
My current work stems from the idea of “Motherhood,” and how the modern interpretation of the word has shifted to include things beyond literal mothers, whether that be another surrogate-person or environment. These things push the boundaries of mothering because they are not tethered by filial attachments, and, thus, can be interpreted in surprising ways.