poetry by shannon marzella
Nervous Breakdown
For my grandmother
Tell me, did you suffer the rose, knotted and frail in your thin hands? Was all of your kneeling
for naught? Did you execute small vices and pile them, tipping, in your medicine cabinet? I know I shouldn’t ask, but [was this caused by] the doctors’ tone [or] your torn birthing gown [or] your wooden bed with the cross always watching? Did you hold a glass child and fear it would break? Perhaps you wrote letters to Eve and warned her against screaming. Perhaps those letters were found by God and that’s why they sent you away. I’ve written letters, myself, not to Eve but to a crow. Am I like you? My windows are dull with fog and residue. My mouth is a tempest.
When you died, I stood in a church, my belly filled with a son. They paraded your quiet urn down a long column of dissonance. There was silence and flowers. Someone spoke of heaven. I have to–no, I have to know–[was this caused by] no one spoke, of course, no one spoke of your sadnesses. I know I shouldn’t ask but were they yours, yours alone?
Shannon Marzella is a queer writer from Connecticut. She holds an MA in English from Fordham University and is completing her MFA in Creative and Professional Writing at Western Connecticut State University. Her young adult novel, “Girl in Shadows,” was published by Nymeria Publishing in 2021, and her poetry has been published by Sky Island Journal, Stonecoast Review, Ghost City Press, and in White Stag Publishing's “SPIRIT anthology.”