3 Poems by Holly Mitchell

Slipping Under

 

Like a ghost, I prepare

a bath behind a door

 

that hasn’t locked

long as I remember.

 

When my mother or grandmother

knocks at the open door,

 

I obscure what they call

my “new breasts” under the soap water

 

and focus on the tiles

unbleached for weeks—

 

Bleach is bad

on a young woman’s health—

 

until someone saves me:

I wish we could take a picture

 

of your hair fanned

out like that in the water.

 

 

Fall Harvest

 

Ears of corn

without butter or salt

 

brittle as birds

pull their skirts.

 

They have heard enough.

They say, Reader, eat

 

this page. Eat here

around the pumpkins

 

dimpled like a boy

so punk rock as

 

to drum them on a strange

suburban street.

 

Feast already. Turn

these spoils into sugar.

 

 

The Mason’s Daughter

 

I don’t have nothing ………….to hide

……………………………..but that …………..I know

 

My sense of privacy ……………………………….an unthing

…………………………….in the mouth of prick

 

Come ……..no closer……….. just you ………….ignore

the battery humming at my neck

 

Don’t look them back

……………………………and they can’t know

 

I take their words

……………………….deeper than South

 

or fetid liberal

……………………..beyond woman and brain

 

into the escape …………………………that grounds me

………………………a rust in the soil

 

deeper inside ……………………………………..than mercy could

……………………know ……..or ………..govern

 

 

Holly Mitchell is a queer poet living in Manhattan. In 2012, Holly was awarded a Gertrude Claytor

Prize from the Academy of American Poets. Her/their work can be found in several places including

Ishaan Review, Split Quarterly, Lavender Review, and The Bakery.