My family preserved in us
the quick nerve pulse of fear
something that is bred into migrant children
a warning retained
in gates that are triple locked
things we keep lips tight about
money stashed in places that are not banks
we forget the meaning of currency
cling to white-picket myths
swallow down superstitions
("don’t cut your nails at night, never walk at morning with wet hair, remember the meaning of eye-twitch, the power of salt and spit")
whisper
that the land that was our parents' salvation
may be the one our children have to run from.
About the Creator
Mara Papavassiliou
Desert Druid 🏜// Writer 🐍
Speculative // literary // horror // nature
Instagram: dogma.ra
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More stories from Mara Papavassiliou and writers in Poets and other communities.
House Party
Thin grease black layer of wine on her lip, she wipes it off and it rolls like sediment on the back of her hand. Ink of drunkenness. The laughing that was in her has soaked away in the cool of the bathroom. She licks teeth that are stained and don’t look good. Head spins. Maybe a small pang of nausea. Squandered her Sunday for this. Wine never agreed with her.
By Mara Papavassiliou4 years ago in Poets
The Missing Ingredient
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a velvety, red ribbon in her hair. She carried a small leather backpack everywhere. She searched the forest by turning stones, checking beneath shrubs, listening to the wind as if it might carry an answer.
By Imola Tóthabout 23 hours ago in Fiction
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