Little Fires, by Sarah Nichols
My mother learned it from her mother. I don’t
remember when she thought I was ready. One day,
I was a girl, watching her mother eating impossible
things. I never asked how she became.
The next day, it was my turn. My mother said
lie back like an offering. A sacrifice for tin and
The wind stirred my skirt, and I opened my
mouth, combustible now.
My mother told me the first one is mine to
It rusts inside you, flaking off. A garden of
Sarah Nichols is a co-editor of Thank You for Swallowing, an online journal of feminist protest poetry. She is the author of three chapbooks, including She May Be a Saint (Hermeneutic Chaos Press, 2016), and Edie (Whispering): Poems from Grey Gardens (Dancing Girl Press, 2015). Her work has also appeared in Yellow Chair Review, Rogue Agent, and Noble/Gas Qtrly.
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