by Tara Mae Mulroy

All mouth, she stole infants and cattle, wanting pulled thigh, the fat that grills up yellow, marrow, the lungs—pale yellow of a strawflower. All mouth, she took earth, sucking stamen and ship mast. She took one gulp of the sea, brought the mountains; another, the islands rushed in. Another, the seabed would be dry. Need is never safe in the mouth.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.

Tara-Mae-Mulroy-2Tara Mae Mulroy is a graduate of the MFA program in poetry at the University of Memphis and currently teaches middle school Latin at a private school. Her chapbook, Philomela, was released from dancing girl press in 2014, and she is currently sending out her full-length collection, Swallow Tongue.

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