Our mother ate
sea urchins while
pregnant, causing us
to be born prickly; pricked
and prickly we were
always in pain.
Our father stole our prayers with
his false science, our mother stole
our science with her false prayers, I ate
the evidence because I was afraid and could no
longer see the faces of who I had been.
He told me after he died he had been
asking the wrong questions.
She has not died yet.
This is not the gospel we
longed for. Our representations
hold us captive. We think we are who
we think we are in the world behind the mirror.
The first night you don’t kiss me I find a
dead bird in our living room.
My back carries the marks
that hold my stories. My best
friend reads the map on my back
and knows just where to put the needles.
Even though I never told her my
secret she is a deer, licking
salt from my wounds
Susy Crandall lives in Albuquerque. She has had poems published in both editions of the Fixed and Free Poetry Anthology, The Más Tequila Review, Adobe Walls, and in a curated collection, Shadow of the Snake.