by a. martins
I broke her favourite porcelain cup,
Hid the shards inside a braided box,
Blamed the cats who she calls fuckers
And harbored that secret like a mythology unspoken.
I never knew death like a kitchen magnet:
Creeping in, until it’s too worn to be ignored
Against the fridge’s quiet whiteness.
I was too young to know that tulips wither,
That broken cups cannot be hidden,
That her stories are the shards I keep on holding
In my bleeding teenage hands
As I wash out the yellow cranes
She left behind for me to break.
a. martins is a Brazilian poet pursuing an English and Gender, Sexuality, and Feminist Studies major at Middlebury College, VT. Born amidst the mango and avocado trees of Brasília, Brazil, he started writing poetry, nonfiction, and critical essays on literature in 2019. His work has been featured on the student-run magazine Blackbird and the independent zine Hibernation (2021). You can find more of his work at a-martins.com and @amartinspoetry on Instagram.
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