Rachel Lauve "Multiples"




run in the family

down the mother’s side.

down from her breasts

past the curve of her stomach and waist.


i used to say, 

“when i have kids

i’ll probably have twins.

my mom is a twin,

and her twin sister had twins—"


now i say,

“if i have kids"

and think

of never being kissed

and of kissing a girl

and of kissing a boy

and of how pregnancy

would stretch even my stretch marks.


i have stopped


about multiples.



i think,

what if

atlas had just

given up

and let the sky

crush us all?

would anyone still be thinking

of that pink plus sign

if we were crushed by the sky?

what if

i just

give up

and stop thinking of waiting

for someone to press their lips to mine?

for love and marriage and a baby carriage?


i run

with drowning breaths

and a lightweight heart beating fast

whenever someone’s eyes

settle on my face,

on my double-chin

hidden by wheat fields.

i have wanted

to be touched

down my breasts

past the curve of my stomach and waist

with silken fingertips

and fingerprints like stamps

onto my skin and stretch marks. 


i have wanted



i might want




i want

to feel 

what the rough waves of

chapped lips feel like

on lips that are not my own,

what the bubbles of cider feel like

on someone else’s tongue.


me, with my lightweight heart,

them, with their pouch of seeds,


to entice

even apollo and zephyrus.

hyacinth seeds

to spread across barren ground

that might yield


Pc: Lanie Yorgen @apoachedegg

Hannah Schneider