Abdomen of my Mother, the Avocado

Sarah Mims Yeargin


My mother, an unripe avocado of a woman
stuffed between the arms of a rocking chair,
listening, wrapped in blue yarn, while my father
worked the kitchen, taught me how to blend
the fruit’s green viscera—lime,
garlic, salt and pepper—Mash your fist
into the bowl like you’re angry, pretend
           the guacamole is the guts
                   of a monster. 
After, a dinner of enchiladas. Then,
her cheek, pressed against cold
bathroom tile. Imagine: a snow angel
smeared on the floor of a crime scene, painted
with her own contents and the remnants
of a stranger, gripping a handmade blanket
the stranger would never use. The very pit
of what it means to be a woman.



SARAH MIMS YEARGIN is a junior creative writing student at the South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities. This year, she received a Silver Key and an honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and an honorable mention in Hollins University's Nancy Thorp poetry contest. Her work has also appeared in Teenage Wasteland Review. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, sleeping, and playing with her cat, Zeus.