Swallow Mother’s tea kettle sings to an empty house. My sisters abandon her, because we are young, and act grown. Keep the water in your mouth. It’ll go down easier if you hold your nose. The infertile fruits of innocence, bleach all wedding gowns. We insist its whiteness. We stole the paint from Saturn’s ring. We watch the planets orbit. Wooden blocks will be traded in, for cosmetic bottles and addictive serenity, like all the women of 86th street. The bottom of the bottle thirsts, for every drop shed.
Ancient Wine Someone within you is familiar. I wish I remembered their name. But when your lips tease my breath, the air in your lungs, taste the same. Your existence is intoxicating. The windows color still vivid. You stole from the hearth, and said we’d see each other again, in the life we last lived in. Maybe that’s why I am reunited, with myself within you. My only soul has been patient and doubting, you would ever return it. You kept her warm in your veins, the blood sweet and thick, like our favorite wine, its flavor foreign to this ancient tongue.
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
Elizabeth Gillespie is an emerging poet and writer from New York. She recently graduated Alvernia University with degrees in Psychology and Philosophy. Her work on the representation of women in literature has been recognized at the 2021 Moravian Philosophy Conference.