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"wraparound" & "mothering" by Zoe Gianfrancesco


maybe it’s in the breath of It,

how even menthol-wrapped,

He can put life to it with

a well-placed sigh,

our arc a paper-thin thing under His hands,

His tears forming an ocean

mingled with the liquor, and the blood,

and the sweat, and a semblance of a

prayer, poured into

His Being(s)

He still doesn’t get it,

being born to die in a way

you don’t get to write,

how He could decide when you

kick it, and you would never see it coming, the smoky taste something too much,

His breath in a bit too quick–

did you anger Him?

when you question,

how His son’s blood could bear

to be wine, to be consumed, when He

seemed to lap every drop,

hangover in their home,

the bread and butter of it

And He’ll sacrifice cigarettes on

the wraparound porch,


butts between the slats,

He’d much prefer this,

the dinginess of it,

what He built for us,

because motel beds don’t need

broken in

They don’t need to be explained to,

They’ll live with it.


you have not been “yourself”,

been eaten by the passing

of something– time, maybe

fickle mistress

you asked for a sign, or a vision

you didn’t see the fissures

a shared dream

an omen for

i picked your casket, lined plum plush

and you thought it washed you out

so you sacrificed your nails, dug


to something that could be considered


do you dream, still? when nothing lights that mind,

no sun to seep in,

do sepia-tinted minutes slip past,

coherence no concern,

slide on your sunday shoes,

when i grew, did you wish

that i bore you?

could i teach you gentleness?

To care for your body as a home,

not a house,

to breath life to your love,

to raise a daughter?

Zoe Gianfrancesco (she/her) is just a little guy. She runs Spillover Magazine and does a whole lot of writing when she feels like it. When she doesn't feel like it, she's usually watching aquarium build videos or thinking about bears. You can read her work in Stone of Madness, PULP: A Literary Journal, and LEVITATE.


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