Under the skin, to my mother — E.C.Corti
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
Disaster strikes at sudden hours,
normal hours.
like when I'm havin' dinner at my ma's table
eating from her platters,
and then the glass clatters.
Then the screamin' starts — it wallows,
in the halls,
ghost-shudders along their path,
I focus my eyes above her head,
Playin' it dead.
Eye contact. It's dangerous, you know?
like starin' the sun in the morrow.
Sorrow slinks in like morning mist,
curling around the building
Prophetic — it's hard to see. Chilling.
The screaming stops,
Silence so bad you can hear a pin drop.
same ol', no one ever learns.
It affects the mind: mind has tears,
and Sheer; sheared by a self-protector in hear.
The cup I broke is joined by another,
when you sweep your hands further.
Sometimes I try to remember that
you swerve the car to avoid a bird,
and Highlight Heaney, even slurred.
E.C.Corti (She/they) is a self-proclaimed amateur writer and poet. A college student, she dreams of several things, like eventually getting a PhD in a science, and writing a book. The latter is thankfully a work in progress. A reader by definition, she dislikes calling reading a hobby. This is simply because a hobby is something you do in your free time, and not a money sinkhole that eats up all your time. She likes to call it 'productive procrastination' to make herself feel better. Her friends like to call her the 'creator of the nerd emoji', and a walking encyclopedia for the random tidbits she spouts. When not writing or reading, she can be found in the dredges of wikipedia or doom scrolling on tiktok.
