of mud,
maw,
anti-mother,
how you
just
appeared
clutched within the grip
of your own
severe
season. You, always
small, quiet-
ed. So
basketed
a thing,
adrift and
rivering, out
in the open yet
far
from all the others. For years
you spoke
little, dreamed
less. We supposed
you were
mute, or
dying. We threw you
to
wolves;
they
didn’t want
you.
We tried
to asphyxiate
you
but you
just grew
more and more
resolute. You
stared back,
silent,
still. You
knew. For
the second time,
you thrust
yourself
alive
and stood there,
born,
surprised.
Amanda Leahy is a native of Lowell, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Thin Air Magazine, BODEGA, The Laurel Review, [PANK], and elsewhere. You can find her on IG: @leahya
Photo by Heloisa Vecchio from Pexels