Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir (The Ohio State University Press 2018), and the poetry chapbooks Regenerate: Poems from Mad Women (Dancing Girl Press 2017), Leaving Tracks: A Prairie Guide (Finishing Line Press 2017), and The Astronaut Checks His Watch (Finishing Line Press 2014). She has worked as Prairie Schooner's Nonfiction Assistant Editor since 2011, and is an Assistant Professor at Bridgewater State University.
We learned the sin of satisfaction —
our mothers and theirs growing
large each day, widening like the moon
we turned our faces toward each night,
hung in the darkness like a beacon.
Over years of hollowness — hearts
and bird bones — the women grew full
on regret and Diet Coke, sucking
at their only bit of sweetness
day after day until their faces shone
round. Glutton, folks spat
when they had to move around
sashaying hips, or when the last roll
was claimed from the breadbasket,
butter glistening on succulent lips.
And though our mothers and theirs
warned us against this legacy,
rans hands along the length
of our spines, a gold star for each
vertabra, or praised hunger,
the way our hipbones protested,
this was eclipsed when they pulled us
like the tides to their laps,
their bodies celestial and gigantic.