by Sonya Schneider

If, by which I mean, when
he was hungry, our mother
would prop him up like a round-cheeked doll
between the wheelchair’s blue vinyl seat
and the homemade wooden tray, moaning.
Then she’d sit across from him
and feed him from her mouth
so that he would not choke.
First, the food was cut,
then carefully chewed, then spit
between her fingers and tucked
onto his outstretched tongue.
Two birds, hungry for love.
This was after she nursed him
for years, after the blue scar
down his chest began to lighten,
and the other one wrapping his
ribcage was made. My brother’s
heart was healing, but his mind
would never be the same.
She learned to give him sustenance,
and he learned to eat all of her.

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Sonya Schneider lives in Seattle, WA, and is currently earning her MFA from Pacific University. Born and raised in San Diego, CA, she graduated with a BA in English from Stanford University. Her plays have been produced in Seattle, and her poetry can be found in Catamaran Literary Reader, West Trestle Review, Aji Magazine, Eunoia Review, and Mom Egg Review. She was a finalist for the 2022 New Letters Patricia Cleary Miller Award for Poetry.