Thirst - Natasha Kinsella

My mother carries thirst.
It seeps along the inside of her --
soft-bellied, open.
She feeds it small promises,
mothers on borrowed ground.
What she offered — bottle-lit,
split between blessing and veil.
Gutstrings sing --
a keening, half-remembered,
passed down, note by note.
Her smile peels like goldleaf,
brief as breath in winter air.
Gifts arrive bare,
already uneasy in hands.
Even joy — unsteady on arrival,
barely touched down, then gone.
Fluent in her pauses,
becoming glitter, gasp --
a child-shaped offering.
Painting her in skin of hearts,
then sealing mouth with a cross.
Silence in reply --
gravity reconsiders.
She says,
"You're so lucky" --
as if saying it
could make a hymn
of survival.
Love carried like a swallowed pin,
rust sweet on the tongue.
Marionette lines
fold into the chin, grown into glass
already swallowed.
And she asks you,
soft as a blade,
not for love --
only its reflection.

Natasha Kinsella is a poet whose work explores silence, inheritance, and the intersections of language and survival. This is their first submission to Black Horse Review.