S. Erin Batiste
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.
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:
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BDDQ-4-FVRFS
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BDDQ-4-FVRFS
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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. |
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About the Author
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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.
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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.