Autobiography

I was born in the middle of America
to a mother whose mother put her on diet
pills at age eleven. My mother eyed
my teenage body and said you’re getting
a little round in the shoulders. What
was I supposed to have? Right angles? Wings?
She meant to protect me. Sometimes
I still cannot feel my body’s borders,
flesh soft and fragile over my waistband,
the round bulge over my bra strap, pooling
in my armpits. At seventeen,
I stuffed myself to the gills
with Pop Tarts and Doctor Pepper
then rode my bike until I puked
with exhaustion. With shame, for what
is hunger but desire? If I could want
nothing, then nothing could hurt me.
What I wanted was to disappear.
But I didn’t. I’m still here.
When it rained today, cherry
blossoms floated onto the ancient
dog’s swayed back. Hummingbirds
buzzed the flowering currant.
Oh! I thought. The world is sweet
and impossible to bear.

*

Persephone in Middle Age

Once I was a young divorcee alone
in my apartment, so afraid
I barely ate. I thought no one

will love me and I meant no man.
I thought I needed one. I thought
I knew hell: a small bedroom

in a closed-up house, windows nailed shut,
bog-marriage.
My body pinned to cheap sheets.

Divorcee stunk of cheap perfume.
Mothers pulled their husbands
away from me at the park,

my son on my hip. I was dangerous.
I had a tattoo. Most nights my toddler slept
in my bed. The others he

was gone, his father pealing
out in a plume of dust, gravel
kicked up from the wheels

of the truck.
I never regretted leaving
that marriage.

Each night he was home,
my son tucked his feet beneath
my hip. I called

him Bird.
All these years
later, I am surprised

at the softness of my body,
that we survived.

*

Sara Quinn Rivara is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently LITTLE BEAST (Riot in Your Throat), a 2024 Finalist for the Oregon Book Award. Her work has appeared recently in CALYX, LEON Literary, Bluestem, Colorado Review and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family.