How much of your mother do you carry with yourself?

By Soph Murray

this bothers me most/ crawling its way into my tired consciousness as I try and find unconsciousness at 3am/ I was an egg in my mother while she grew in her mother/ how can three generations be so different? / how can they all have been one? / how did we breathe and live and feed in apparent harmony? / did we all listen to Frank Sinatra / in deep, hot water that spilled over the bathtub / until our skin was pink and raw / craving something salty never sweet / rebelling against the expectations that each father help for perfect daughters / that never existed / and made bad choices to then suffer the consequences / in empty rooms and full glares while the rest avoided us? / I was an egg in my mother in her mother / she carried her who carried me

Soph Murray was spurred back into writing because of the global pandemic. It was a necessary tool to maintain sanity amidst working from home and homeschooling a gang of children. Soph taps into motherhood, magic, and innate misanthropy in her poetry to express the things that would otherwise wake her anxious brain at 4am in the morning. She has been published in anthologies by Hecate Magazine, Mum Poem Press, and Faces of Motherhood by Blood Moon Poetry Press. Work can also be found on Instagram.

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