​Bleah Patterson
​

In a parallel universe I am borrowing grief from my daughter, who has it to spare
 
 
 her absence is not because she wasn’t wanted
                                         but because I didn’t want        to be
             a braided thing, my legs            him between               I didn’t
want                            to be                                        I didn’t want
             and I said as much         but he              too drunk to care
     knew                         I’d only ever known men                         like containers
only known      women like water                it’s been seven years
    and no one ever asks                       why I stay so quiet about her
                                        politeness is catching down here
                   so is silence
            but I think about washing her blueberries
                                                                  I think about the frayed hair
of the dolls I bought her             not the pills                           not
                                       not the way I washed
her away                                    I think about her bud of a peony
    cascaron      mouth, bursting open              hear her  tin can full of alms
laughter                                     rattling         in my sleep         
 

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Bleah (blay-uh) Patterson is a queer, southern poet born and raised in Texas. She has been a Pushcart and Best of Net nominee. Much of her work explores the contention between identity and home and has been featured or is forthcoming in various journals including Electric Literature, Pinch, Write or Die, The Laurel Review, Phoebe Literature, and Taco Bell Quarterly.