Christa Mastrangelo
is a poet and nonfiction writer, whose work can be found online and in print, in such journals as Water-Stone Review, Arsenic Lobster, Florida English Journal, and Valparaiso Poetry Review.
She is currently on hiatus from teaching college writing.
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Scorn
I grow wearier each day.
The reflection of me in the mirror
is no longer me. I count
lines: seventeen.
My brow furrows examining my head
for gray. In a certain light
and angle, my face is my mother’s.
I scowl, and wish to erase her
wrinkles from my face.
I am beginning to understand
how it feels to be erased.
My daughter is a second hand ticking
off minutes that pass from my life.
She is a miniature usurper, taking
over the me that I am growing out of.
My head bubbles with poison—
apples and ribbons that could render her
lifeless. I use words instead,
and forgive myself knowing that she,
given half a chance, would dance
merrily as I burned through hell
in fire shoes.
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