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Mollie McMullan

Daughter of the Irishman and the Honeybee

There are tales of voracious men

Fathers with sharp teeth,

husbands with claws

My mother knew one

He drank her milk from her baby’s mouth,

stole honey from a hive

He saw my hunger and scolded it,

watching as I wept for the sustenance my mother knew how to provide

My father was a fire, all-consuming and vicious

His flames could never be suffocated, only discouraged

He taught me the duality of man,

consuming my flesh while wishing I was whole,

cradling my head while pouring salt into my wounds

He forced me to eat against the edge of a silver blade,

offering bread to soak up the blood on my tongue

Hunger was intimate and shameful

My mother was too busy trying to survive to remember my first word

She said maybe it was momma

like a plea of some sort

Don’t you dare leave me with this man

Tell me I do not share his blood

Does she know I have his nose?

Mollie McMullan is a student at SUNY Geneseo. When she’s not playing with her dog somewhere in Long Island, she’s lip-synching to the longest songs possible and illustrating birthday cards.

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