Mae Ellen-Marie Wissert
Mae Ellen-Marie Wissert
(originally published in Share Journal)
shave your head & then cry about it cause you think you’re ugly
Do it. Bawl cause you’re balding. Run
your hands over your smooth flesh.
Run over a corroded nail
in your Cadillac
in the dead of summer
on the black highway. Change
the tire under the boiling fever
of sunbeams. Turn red. Hurt.
Fill my hands
with sticky green aloe. Let them
rub your blistered skin.
Pop. Pus. Ooze. Sob.
Rip all my dresses off
the felt hangers. Scare the dog. Now,
scream that I’m going to leave
you for someone with hair.
Like these stupid things
are important to me.
imagine me becoming a mother —
long nails & greying hair. Take
a 35 mm photograph
of me naked, soaking
in a puddle of my blood, cloistered by linen,
holding the placenta
on the kitchen floor. Hang the photo
on the fridge
with a cowboy boot magnet.
Grab an egg for breakfast.
Gaze the glossy photo.
Look what was inside me—
all veins & bloody violet.
Lover, come to me
while I’m lit in lamplight. Solemnize
my milk spilling, dripping
from a gummy mouth, cascading
my throbbing breast—
its bleed white & warm,
& pooling between my thighs.
.
The baby’s delicate suck
extracts me & infuses itself. Tremble
your hands as you reach to drink
from what once belonged
to you.
Originally from Idaho, Mae Ellen-Marie Wissert is currently a writer in Mississippi. Her poetry is published in North American Review and in Massachusetts Review. Find her on Instagram @maeellenmariewissert