Gratitude: A Prayer
My grandmother shit herself at the department store, waiting for me to get back with an associate with the bathroom code. She whimpered my name as thick shit slid down her loose pant leg. Thank god I took her shopping that day, not the neighbor, not my father. Thank god for linoleum and tile and the alcove in the back of the store away from other shoppers. Thank god for the associate who said nothing when she rounded the corner and saw the yellow-brown puddle. Thank god the store sold wet wipes. Thank god she had spare pants and underwear, carried them around in her purse. Thank god my sister came with us, gagging but ferrying in and out of the women’s restroom. Thank god for the woman and her toddler who came and went without a word about the sour squash smell. Thank god for toilet seat covers, better than paper towels because they were flushable. Thank god the sinks had actual handles and not sensors so I could flush her shoes with hot water, watching toilet paper stuck to shit stuck to her naked heel under the stall door. Thank god the handicap stall was empty. Thank god again for wet wipes, with which I gently erased my grandmother’s insides from the toilet’s outsides. Thank god for whoever held my gag reflex as I bent to the ground and did what was before me to be done, scooping the soft earth of my grandmother.
Sonnet for My Mother
The youngest of seven got no supervision.
My mother: the baby, last chore, the wild one
who was often felt alone and unloved til she found
men to fill the hole. My mother hung herself
on every wedding ring she got, slaved belly-up
til she was exhausted and her daughter old enough.
She dressed me up in bras and matching panties from Walmart,
her eleven-year-old in cheap lace and faux blue silk, no padding
in the small cups to keep nervous nipples hidden. She filled
my backpack with romance novels about girls named Heaven,
girls who get raped and find grace through old rich men,
yellowed paperbacks from the depths of her cedar hope chest.
She put me in her husband’s side of the bed and finally got her rest.
I tried to write a poem where my mother is a victim. I fed her to the wolves instead.
Gatekeeper
Near enough to help
Grandma die, I play
daughter, driver, neighbor, friend.
I clutch her whittled arm against
my peachy ribs as we cross
icy patches in the sidewalk,
her cane popping along. I buffer
her stumbles with our flesh and blood,
smell the fat that boils over and burns
on her stove, keep her happy
full of insulin and Diet Coke.
My faith dissolves with her dementia, […]
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My Mother’s Mind
is kept blank as unlined paper
hospital-linoleum-pure and bright
complete with thick antiseptic smell.
Fluorescent blindness rules and
thoughts must remove their shoes
shed all implications at the door
to avoid upsetting the peace with a squeak. […]
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Britt Allen is an award-winning poet who graduated with her Master of Arts degree in Literature and Writing from Utah State University in May 2020, where she now teaches academic writing. She is interested in the eroticism of violence in female confessional and lyric poetry, contributing her own experiences and voice with her art. She lives in northern Utah with her partner and rescue dog. Her first chapbook, Harvest, was published summer 2021 by Finishing Line Press. Follow her work at brittallen.org.