One text from my mother and the dam bursts. Eating lunch at McDonald’s again today! I can see her alone in the Outback, the barren parking lot, burger tucked in one hand, wad of napkins choked in the other. I would like to be asleep in the passenger seat as NPR plays, to bathe in the sweet smell of her oily skin—only, in this vision she is not the her I know, she is ten again, shaking her head violently, compulsively, scrubbing her tiny hands raw, cursing her parents, slamming the car door three times just right. When I was ten, I mistook my mother’s fourth grade portrait for mine. In a way I was right, though I never shook, I thrashed, became an angry ragdoll like Annabelle and haunted my own home. There are still times I choose anger, times I willingly fold into the red hot seed of myself and live there until I can no longer fit. I saw my mom do this once when she thought I was still too little to know things. I can’t remember much beyond that, decided then I would just collect the good parts. For example I could tell you exactly what her skin smells like if I wanted to, wrap us both up in the syrupy warmth of her scalp but I won’t. I’m too busy in the Outback, empty save for my future, the napkins, NPR, the host crooning about the next great artist. My mom takes a bite of her burger and I wipe her mouth clean again, and again, and

This poem is highlighted as the winner of the 2025 Wick Poetry Scholarship.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Isabella Kaufman is an emerging poet from Northeast Ohio. Their work has appeared in local and national publications, including Luna Negra and the multi-volume anthology, S/He Speaks: Voices of Women and Trans Folx. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found hiking, playing games with friends, or annoying her cat, Milo.

Contents

Offshoot

ABOUT THE AUTHOR