Frances Sharples


                               I don’t want to hold anymore —

  the children that pull up that grass, the babies that swallow

that moss, the men

  who drink up that river, the women who caress me

and wish to swallow me whole,

  if quietly. I want to find it

somewhere that is not here —

           my body, this earth,

some extraterrestrial hill

           where I can be quiet alone and think about it, all

something else. Mud cradled in the fingernails

  of a creature with love in its throat; antenna between

front teeth; ocean gravel stuck

  to the palm that slaps

me from behind. I am sick

           of dragging, of everything running through me

when I am the mother of the world. From river hillside

            I am something

covered in skin, sure, covered in

      shore, in wet, crashing, growth, melting, cascade, crest,

             breast and valley. Mother,

would you make me in your image? a planet that holds so much

                                                                       in itself.

Frances Sharples is an English literature major in their last year at Geneseo. Frances is the Editor-in-Chief of The Lamron and Iris Magazine. They write a lot and talk even more. They also read poems and listen to music and love all of their friends.