When you were a child, your mother pulled feathers
from her throat every time she said your name,
spread silks over glass and leaves over each pool of water
to hide your face from you.

She will be known only as your mother.
She knew when she saw you crack the shell of the first egg.

Soon, you will pull your own daughter from your body
with your small hands and, in her plain face, find relief.
Men never hear no from your mouth and when you say yes,
you wonder why you taste blood.

Your mother laced your wedding dress humming funeral songs.
Pyres reflected in her eyes. She knows what comes.

She felt the air split when she held you,
cold and afraid when your eyes opened and you smiled so.
When every man looks past her in a room, she turns her face,
whispers don't leave your daughter.

I beg you, Helen, do not go.

But you will go, and lay your ear to the smooth
wood of a horse's neck and hear the beating of many.

Anna Sandy-Elrod is pursuing her PhD in Poetry at Georgia State University. She is the current Editor in Chief of New South Journal and Editor of Birdcoat Quarterly. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in the North American Review, Green Mountains Review, Adirondack Review, Threepenny Review, Arkana,, and others. She lives in Atlanta with her husband and three cats.