Every strand of your mother’s hair is silver moon
and half earth when her back is both asylum
and motherland. So, if you need a map
in your own country, there is nothing wrong with you:
blame the fire. If you happen to watch unknown men
drag fallen logs into monster trucks and remember
your own brother, you will never see an open door without
the echo of your mother’s howl straining into thunder
it makes the sea escape. In every dream, you look
at your own fists and assume all guns are loaded.
To you, the stars have always been bullet holes across
night’s chest and when the dark comes blossoming
with red apples and rubble, you wonder what has become
of your land: whether this is shrine or slaughterhouse.
By Audrey Brynn
Audrey Brynn is an occasional poet with a habit of peeling oranges in all the wrong ways. She is a proud oatmeal enthusiast captivated by all sorts of mythology and languages. You can often find her hoarding crosswords and memorizing typefaces. Discover more of her work at: www.astagesetforcatastrophe.tumblr.com.