McLeod Logue is an MFA candidate and poet at UNC Wilmington. Her work has appeared in The Nashville Review, The Shore Poetry, and elsewhere. Instagram: @am_logue



     Do you think Mom ever ate a worm, think she ever tasted dirt?


I know I put it in my mouth because you said I wouldn’t.

The worm. I found it hiding under soil, dark and damp,

and blind. It never stood a chance. I could feel its life hot

in my hand and then soft against my throat. I swallowed hard.

I think it still lives in my belly, a defiant souvenir,

to prove I was capable of cruelty.


I know I tasted earth before butter, flattening my life

onto a taut string, asking only the important questions

like why and who and what now? I know I landed in dirt

more often than not, suburb baby with a mouth that needed

good washing. Soap wouldn't do, sometimes

you have to make things dirtier to make them clean.


I know I lay face down in the earth before I was whole.

My body remembers the feeling of chest flat, spilling out

the sides, caving in the soil. I know she hated me

dirty, hated the way I tracked everything into the house,

lawn and bug and anything fertile. She hated the way I let

chunks of dirt fill my nose, my mouth, grains tasting the side

of my tongue, rolling back again, down like beads.


I don’t know. Which is to say, if she’s anything like me,

if she raised me in the perfect image of what comes first,

how could she never have been facedown

in the earth, waiting for something to move, waiting

for what comes next.


Mama said my birthmark was an angel kiss,

a red patch to remind me that God loves everyone.

It was meant to be a place where I was touched

before birth, before her hands reached me

and we were one body at the core.


I took communion with my head down, arms crossed

and let the bread dissolve on my tongue.

I was on my knees for ages, praying He’d lift

his finger and let my skin recover.


In church, we sang in unison, all straight lax faces

and an organ. I waited for the beats we’d breathe together,

a congregation like the womb. Jesus rose every year

and I wore white to please her.


When I knelt to drink the wine, the cup slipped from above,

blood of Christ purple against my birthmark.

The congregation held its breath, organ thumping

along, hollow in my eardrums.


Mama stripped me down to frilly socks,

and laid the white dress flat on the dining room table,

squirted bleach from plastic bottle, the nozzle honking

like a strangled goose. She scrubbed the cloth

with flat palms until the stitching came loose.


I cried, naked, my arms covering my chest,

wondering if she’d tried to do the same to me.


We slept in the front room, closest to the ocean

where we could still breathe saltwater in our sleep.


The way his chest rose and fell through the night

was my own current, the kind with teeth that pulled you in,


gripped your hair, left you gasping for air. It was a complete love,

one with a soul of its own. He slept in fits, the moon guiding


him from his side of the bed to mine, head on my pillow,

body buzzing. He absorbed my heat, led me to a cool patch


to drink. It was as if even in our dreams

we were pulled together, catching each other


like a parachute in midair, dipping our toes into clouds.

His heavy breath mixed with the waves crashing outside,


muddled the cars rolling on the rocky path.

He was the whole world in one room,


the sun stretching its fingers across the duvet, blinking

over his lips, his hair, his wide back. We rose like the tide


being pulled back, smelled the heat baking through sand

sprinkled in the carpet. We were hair and skin and sex for the ages,


everything moving in one, as if we’d never spent a moment apart.

As if the ocean had been scrubbed clean, swallowed the pitchers


of moon, drained empty and spilled forth to fill

our room, shaken like a snow globe.


Throw me in the deep end

all arms and water, body

blending with blue and fear

rising up in bubbles, hot air

like blood blisters caught

in nostril caverns. Drop me

like a stone, warping water

to make room for flat feet

and breath held like a lifeline.


Let me wade in, the pool

dragging me down, the horizon

line hiking up my mouth, my nose,

trailing me with careful touch

and everything brushed cold.


Teach me to stand with toe tips

brushing the molding, my eyes meeting

the horizon. I watch water wiggle

away from air, foaming at the merge

like a kiss. Perfectly still, I let

my legs drift up, arms reach out

like a tent, head bobbing back.

I turned over, stiff, face to face

with the tiles at the bottom—

they squirmed, blinked back at me,

let bubbles out too.


I was water. Enough of me

to be blue if I wanted,

baby fat buoyancy and finally

a moment to be still, to be quiet.

Then a crane lifting me out

of the water like god. The first breath

of air was bang snaps thrown against

the sides of my lungs, TV static behind 

pupils. I lay face up on the concrete,

the sun bearing down and nothing

had ever made me feel so alive.


We watched her at night,

with screen tired eyes, blue light

and sagging postures, she shrunk

under the blanket weight of dark. We were

invisible, unyielding, wide eyes on the opposite end

of a long lens. She moved in circled riptides,

the ones we unlearned so our spines

didn’t weave cross stitching. She was

wildfire etching against gelatin,

no smoke in sight, only pink

dawn barging towards glass.

She had peanut butter fingers,

everything caught in cement and there

was no compass to mark where we ended

and she began. Her pixels dilated

like fat mosquitos and we drank her in

long sips, breathing in her glow. We were parasitic,

scopophilic, feeding from the big screen our bodies one,

a tiny green pixel centered on her laptop’s edge.

She stared blankly into the void before her, detached,

eyes drifting apart and neck side bent, a long laugh

born from stiff vocal cords, exposed teeth flashing

from the folds of her mouth. She broke

the silence and looked back at us.

Before the green light clicked black

and everything was dark, dark