Gabrielle Hogan
Image by Leah Sophia Dworkin
on a picture of my mother, circa 1989
at the halloween party, i am one rum & coke
away from entering the fourth dimension fully
nude & i wonder where my mother will go when she
dies. outside the rain smells like wet coins & inside like
bud light. i wonder what my mother drank at my age.
if it burned like sage in a haunted home, or left piss-
yellow stains on the hem of her shirt. in this picture
she wears a blue eyeliner that she never wears now.
the music outside the bathroom sounds out of english,
thrum of cramped words without a mouth to hollow them out.
i wonder what played around my mother in that quick-
lighted moment, if it was less music than it was
a song with every other beat removed. i was with
her in that moment, if only just an egg pouched in
her abdomen. this is the closest i have ever
been to her & is the closest i might ever be.
i wonder if after that last gold drink her body
jackknifed over the toilet bowl, the milk souring
inside her breasts as i rattled around inside her
ovarian keg—dregs of the godblood young women
are made of, now spillage. i spill my drink under the
faucet—this universe where my mother smiles in
pictures, or takes them at all, is still not close enough.
someone knocks on the door. i am not ready to go.
away from entering the fourth dimension fully
nude & i wonder where my mother will go when she
dies. outside the rain smells like wet coins & inside like
bud light. i wonder what my mother drank at my age.
if it burned like sage in a haunted home, or left piss-
yellow stains on the hem of her shirt. in this picture
she wears a blue eyeliner that she never wears now.
the music outside the bathroom sounds out of english,
thrum of cramped words without a mouth to hollow them out.
i wonder what played around my mother in that quick-
lighted moment, if it was less music than it was
a song with every other beat removed. i was with
her in that moment, if only just an egg pouched in
her abdomen. this is the closest i have ever
been to her & is the closest i might ever be.
i wonder if after that last gold drink her body
jackknifed over the toilet bowl, the milk souring
inside her breasts as i rattled around inside her
ovarian keg—dregs of the godblood young women
are made of, now spillage. i spill my drink under the
faucet—this universe where my mother smiles in
pictures, or takes them at all, is still not close enough.
someone knocks on the door. i am not ready to go.
GABRIELLE GRACE HOGAN is a poet from St. Louis, Missouri, and is currently an undergraduate at Bradley University. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in Spiral Orb, SOFTBLOW, LEVELER, and more. She was the 2017 recipient of the Stein Academy of American Poets Prize for her poem "pools." She hopes to pursue her MFA or move to a swamp to become a bog witch, whichever comes first. You can find her at gabriellegracehogan.tumblr.com.