by Tyler Hurula

I am an only child.
My mother does not stay

long enough to feast on my father’s
fists. When I look in the mirror, I bare

my mother’s teeth. My eyes, twins
glowing green ivy, barren of poison

roots. You will not find me in a sea of people
pleasers—I am raising a forest of chosen

family trees. My mother unfurls,
unlearns the language of obedience.

She conspires with other disentangled
mothers, and I am raised by soft-handed

palm readers who un-stain me worrier,
weave me warrier as they trace the threads

of my skin. My sisters are imaginary.
When we play tea party no one slices

their finger. We dance loose-limbed
and unscarred. No one gets called

into the elementary school principal’s
office to talk to a nice lady asking

about the origin of bruises. I am not afraid
of voices wearing thunder capes.

When my imaginary sister sends me
an imaginary text about an imaginary

baby, I am happy—not scared
of who they will take after.

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Tyler Hurula (she/they) is the pinkest poet in Denver, Colorado. She strives to be the most queer and polyamorous person they can be. Author of Love Me Louder (Querencia Press) and Too Pretty for Plain Coffee (Wayfarer Books). She has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes, and was a finalist for the Write Bloody 2024 Jack McCarthy Book Prize Contest. Find her on Instagram @theprettypinkpoet.