Late Summer
The goldenrod bloomed early this year. I lie in the grass
second-guessing my own beauty, so tired
from working the soil, these wounds
my grandmother left in my mother that live
in me like stones
in the garden; these feathers, these scarlet beans.
Ticks make their way up from the ground,
parting the dark tangle of leg hair
in search of sacrament.
I suppose this makes me holy.
Worthy of being desecrated, or at least
bitten into.
I want to close
my eyes but not now—I’m waiting
for the flowers to grow taller.
I want to be here when they die,
full of blood and all the mothers who saw me coming,
feet red as rubies, kissing the ground.
Audrey Gidman is a queer poet living in Maine. She serves as assistant poetry editor for Gigantic Sequins and an editor for Newfound’s Emerging Poets Chapbook Series. Her chapbook, body psalms, winner of the Elyse Wolf Prize, is forthcoming from Slate Roof Press.