G. Files

afterbirth

in another life i was a mother.
ate my young
during a hard winter,
in my cold burrow,
in the warm dark.
in this life i could have been
a good man, but instead i became
a bad woman. leave
dust on the windowsills. refuse
to clean the kitchen sink. live
like a shark without blood:
unsatisfied. dream myself
new teeth, old burrow.
small bodies pink and squirming.
their soft and lovely cries.
how skin burst, how bones crunched
gently, as fresh snow underfoot.
the taste came like an angel,
rich and hot and gamey.
my tongue wept; it was afraid.
in the dark, joy called to me, but i didn’t
answer.

changeling

i kill my mother’s daughter and put on her skin.
i turn teacup; i’m a good girl.
i’m a stopgap in the church pew.
it’s the only way to make her share with me
the recipe, open family secret,
passed down from grandma and offered
to neighbors, to friends, to
anyone.
the secret is to live without fear of oil
and red-40, two whole bottles.
cocoa, vanilla, sugar.
my favorite part, the frosting!
cream cheese with powdered sugar in her
yellow bowl, machine-mother,
tines white-capped and metal.
if she loves me, she’ll let me
lick the spoon. one day,
maybe, the costume will
decay, and she’ll give me
eyes like handcuffs; she’ll say
she’s been robbed.
but for now i turn my back
carefully, hunch over
the sink, eating with my
forked tongue.