self-portrait as you as i
poetry by Hillary Martin
self-portrait as you as i
you left out the sunshine on purpose,
separated yourself from the flowers.
explained it as if someone else did it for you,
smaller, less directly in front filling warehouses
with your tongues and bleeding on borrowed things.
your dad suggested you looked happier in old photos,
so you dyed your hair darker to feel closer to your mother.
you buy yourself dying flowers, every sunday
to celebrate surviving saturday.
you went to truckee once because the name made your belly ache,
and you found something that wasn’t blue,
and you found something that wasn’t ocean.
[1] [2] [3]
poetry by Hillary Martin
[ 1 ]
when I grow up I want my mother
to carry me heavy to her bedroom
tuck me in on the pillow
where she lays her head
she’ll press her lips
to my forehead
tell me to rest
you have done enough of
traveling and begging.
[ 2 ]
when the yard claims day
my sister and i
will scrub the saint
from each other’s bellies.
she will spill water on the crown
of my head
and pass me the cup.
[ 3 ]
when clouds dry up
my grandma will unbury herself
from the flower bed
in my front yard. she will tell me
she talked to god
and was mistaken
that whosoever means
whosoever.
she will take me to the
kitchen and pour soup from her mouth.
she will bring me to the table
and tell me to eat up.
Hillary Martin
Originally from a small town in Tennessee, Hillary Martin is a queer poet currently living in Oakland, California. She attends California College of the Arts where she is pursuing her MFA in Writing with a concentration in Poetry. Her work can be found in Selcouth Station, Glass Poetry, and Red Earth Review.