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S. Erin Batiste
​

Picture
Image by Pascal Janssen

​Matrilineage 
         
after Nicole Sealey
I’ve been pregnant twice. On my father’s side, besides his
mother, none of the women have children including me.
My father’s mother was beautiful. All of my father’s sisters
are beautiful. This includes his dead twin sister. My mother

is pretty for a dark skinned girl, they said. They say I am
beautiful. Strangers say I am beautiful. Strange men have
been saying I am beautiful since second grade. My mother’s
little sister had bulimia. I noticed it when I was ten. My little

sister has bulimia. I noticed it when she was ten. My father’s
mother died of stroke. When she died, we drove to Tucson
and ate at an expensive Mexican food restaurant, Mi Nidito.
I still remember its name more than I remember her. My

grandmother died of stroke. When my real grandma died,
I was in Italy. My father’s sister killed herself at thirty-five.
Her obituary only described her as: daughter, sister, aunt.
My mother’s sister died before forty-five. Doctors said

her heart failed her. At her funeral, the man who married
someone else brought his three kids. They said he cried
louder than anyone. Her obituary only described her as:
daughter, sister, aunt. I am a late bloomer. I was the last

girl to get my period in grade school. I was the last girl
to get fucked in high school. Two weeks later, the same
man drove me into the middle of midnight and desert,
said, he wouldn’t drive me home until I also fucked his

friend. They were nearly thirty. Since thirty-five, my
periods have become heavy. My gynecologist announces
that I am more fertile than ever. She hands me a binder
full of birth control options. I do not have the heart

to tell her that I’ve been celibate several years. But I
remind myself to tell my therapist that I resent my gyne-
cologist now. My father’s mother collected Christmas,
the French, and photographs of her dead daughter. My

father’s dead sister collected _______. His family made
sure her New York apartment was quietly packed away
at the same time she was. My father’s other two sisters
collect _______. Only one has ever spoken to me, via

email. Once, asking about nice places to visit in Italy. My
grandmother collected painted teacups, Bibles, miniature
Black porcelain angels, one shed full and a houseful from
her dead daughter, anything she thought could save her.

My mother’s sister collected the finest linens, dishes, de-
signer silks that her childless dollars could buy. My mother
collects leather, ballpoints, dolls who look like me. She gives
them all my first name. She likes most, they are voiceless.

I collect vintage, tattoos, teacups like my real grandmother,
a family full of wooden statues, enough to name a village.
I’ve collected abuses, sad stories and tragedies, grudges,
even the smallest slights have proven useful down the line.

My sister collects. My sister collects. My sister collects.
My sister collects. My sister collects. My sister collects.
My sister collects. My sister collects. My sister collects.
My sister collects. My sister collects. My sister collects.
WANTED:
*******
BDDQ-4-FVRFS
​Bed    dwelling   drama   queen    now    hiring    forever
friends  on  a  full-time   basis.   Veteran  thrifters  and
brunchers   are    encouraged   to   apply.    Must   have
experience      in      dealing      with      an     extroverted
introvert.    Contradictory   as   a   sunshower.    Showy.
Possessive.   Weepy.   Prone  to  loneliness,   even  at  a
crowded   party   or  poetry  reading.    A   penchant  for
rumors,  dresses,  oversharing,  making  lists  and tea
recommended.    Trained   to   gracefully   tackle   trust
issues  and  social  treasons  as dainty,  as delicate as
lace.       Never   forget    her    birthday    or   the   death
anniversaries   of anyone   who  ever   loved  her.    Able
to  steel  themselves   against  gossip,  pettiness,  and
manipulation.    Though    these   days   she   uses   her
powers      for      good,       mostly.       Tracking     trines,
squares,    sun  and  moon cycles,    early warnings  for
every  retrograde   are  prerequisites.     Willingness  to
work     bewitching     hours,        overtime      may      be
necessary  to  charge,     channel,     align  crystals and
chakras   alike.      Competitive    salary    consummate
with companionship.
*******
About the Author
III.
​       Her heart is a ship’s compass that keeps her on course; these promptings  are   noblest in her.     Comfort  is definitely her driving force. She longs for true belonging but may be quite restless in her constant search for the perfect mood and setting. She puts endless energy into the conquest of entertainment, satisfaction, games, and pleasure. Her tastes  are  extravagant,  defined,  divine,  refined—something she is proud of.   She has an  eye for finding items of quality, style and sensation, and attracts them. She is deeply involved with the material world. Alas, she easily glosses over realistic details and can get herself into debt. She is suspicious and turned off by anything impersonal, too much  rationalizing  leaves her cold.  It  is  hard for her  to passively witness and absorb information. She may not always listen as well as she speaks! She might be a little addicted to gossip! She is sensitive and suffers bruised or wounded pride whenever she is unheard, ignored, criticized, pushed aside. Frequently she finds herself thrust into the spotlight, wholly unprepared for it. Though naturally talented in the extreme, she may exhibit a rather manic resistance to executing even the most  mundane  task or obligation. Objectivity,  logic  and rationale do not come freely to her. Drawing up a resume may reveal an eclectic background lacking real depth, a short sojourn in each job and dubious accomplishments. Circumstances require she uses her wits to amass money, which is not as simple as it sounds, and she could even have difficulties   claiming   inheritance.     The universe  may  force  her   into power vacuums only she can fill.    She may well  hesitate or  show signs of acute insecurity when it becomes obvious she should step into the vacuums.
 

S. ERIN BATISTE is a poet. In 2018, she was a finalist for the Furious Flower Poetry Prize and the New Guard Knightville Poetry Contest, a semifinalist for 92Y’s Discovery Contest, and made the longlist for the Cosmonauts Avenue Poetry Prize and the Peach Gold in Poetry. She has received fellowships from Cave Canem, Callaloo, Brooklyn Poets, and Atlantic Center for the Arts. Her work appears in Wildness, Cosmonauts Avenue, Peach Mag, Haunt Journal of Art, and Puerto del Sol among others. She is addicted to thrifting, sequins, making lists and tea.
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