growing up
love had no face.

only a hollowed
out blur where
my mother’s apologies
were meant to fit.

a scarce resource.
nuggets i collected from
the softness of my sister’s
arms, sweeping me up &
away from Empty.

love squeezed itself inside
bags of pineapple cherry gummy
bears, and stitches sewn
on makeshift pillows. the
work of my grandmother’s
hands.

she just turned 97,
and asking me to recognize
what love looks like
is like asking her
to remember
who i am.

---

strega clare manning is a baltimore based poet. she has been previously published in Bullshit Lit, fifth wheel press, Indie Blu(e) Publishing, Bi Women Quarterly, and Voicemail Poems. when she’s not writing, she’s playing with her cats, gardening with her partner, and lifting heavy weights. you can find her on instagram @stregashewrote.