The Hierophant

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Poem by Cristalle Smith

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Recently, I received a rejection from a reputable literary magazine. It was a personalized rejection. I’ve been told those are important. Almost getting across the finish line is like getting across the finish line.

So’s this.

    The rejection said my writing did not deal with gender. Or class.

I’ve thought
      a lot about what I would write
      back to that literary magazine.

Dear So and So Slush Reader, no

         Dear So and So Editor:

I had to knock on a foodbank windown in-between classes for baby formula. My knuckles
red from glass.

        My face
            burning as I crossed back.

            It was
            the soy kind, my son wasn't
            used to soy formula. Soft plumes
            of white vomit on tilting linoleum
            from 1977. Sincerely yours

            and so on.

            PS-The linoleum was green, red. But faded to pastel pink.
            The colours reminded me of pillowy mints in ceramic bowls
            on diner counters.

Then, I think, career

         suicide. No one likes
         a difficult writer. Don't
                      be a victim, matchstick girl.

I write lists instead:

14 slices of bread
7 sandwiches
14 if I fold the slice in half

1 cup of peanut butter
1 jar of jam that used to be blackberry and now smells like cider vinegar

10 days until child tax credit
30 days until I can use the food bank again