Son Sits Before Mother
Son sits before Mother as a man in molting,
Racing fatigue and fatness to the grave.
She knows him still as the child that gnawed
And notched her bedframe while she slept,
Leaving a fossil for the father of the future
He would wrestle feast and famine to become.
But now she is the groundling at his fingertips,
Curled in a cradle she understands to be a casket.
A seasoned captive, she dozes in her final dress
And awakens as a girl with a galling laugh—
Because it is a crassly amusing thing to yawn
In the dark again and again, only to bite down
On the fleeing fin of life while winter’s water
Spews fountains from your summer lips.
about
corey davis (she/her/hers) is a young, emerging writer from jackson, mississippi. she is an honors graduate of the university of mississippi, with a b.a. in english and an emphasis in creative writing. her fiction has appeared in places such as goat’s milk, mudroom, and knight’s library (forthcoming). her poetry is forthcoming from brave voices. she loves books, music, movies, and thinking deeply at all times.
lavender bones magazine 