by Gabrielle Mayberry

Nobody asked 
But my sister’s dog is dying 
From the inside out 
We sit on a blanket in the grass 
Talking sex 
And pulling clumps of fleece 
From under his lion’s coat 
And letting them go in the wind 

Some uncles are only strange men 
Shrugging on the honorific like a cast-off 
Broken-in oxford 
Thanksgiving uncles who watch from 
The grown-up table 
Christmas uncles buying hugs from little girls 
With fives folded into a hallmark 
Dead uncles they finally admit 
Hurt our mom 
Dead uncles with whom we were 
Not to be left alone 

My sister taps embers onto the blanket 
Glowing crumbs burning out faster 
Than the rest of us 
Mom warned us of nicotine, and 
She would know– 
It almost killed her but 
She won’t say 
It was me 
She won’t say 
Our favorite great-grandfather 
Was like our uncle 
Was like a cigarette 
Nobody asked 

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About the Author:

Gabrielle Mayberry is a poet and aspiring author raised in Texas, with a Bachelor’s in English from Southeastern Oklahoma State University. Her poetry is a product of deep discomfort as she examines and challenges the convictions she was raised to accept as truth, as well as a celebration of nature, women, and queerness. She works as a librarian and lives with her fiancé Morgan, a dog named Gimli and a cat named Snips. Her favorite apple is Honeycrisp.