We Eviscerate What We Love

from Tahoma Literary Review

issue 20, Spring 2021

A rabbit lies belly open on the kitchen floor, / its glassy eyes refracting lamp light,


viscera spilling onto tile. I read /

its warm pink innards like tea leaves


before trying to lift the open envelope /of its body in my hands and out the door.

A Woman

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My Heart, Not Hers (And Not Hers Either)

"If not for Buffalo Wild Wings and their extra large beers, /
my husband might have divorced my extraordinary self /
right at the airport. A man traveling with the least wise /
version of his wife needs a drink, or two, or three, /
because she will test all of his versions."

Why Our Mothers Panic

from The Southern Review, Spring 2012 and Verse Daily, September 2012

"On days like this, her head is not a skull filled with networked matter, /

its own system of fences and walls built up and torn down over time. /

It is an empty cavern sleeved with hanging bats"

A Woman, Split

from Stirring: A Literary Collection, Volume 16, Ed. 5

"Now imagine I am three.
Not the tree. Instead,
a totem made of flesh

beneath a wooden sky:
my many fingers spin
the thread of possible lives."

What Our Mothers Know as Love

from The Gettysburg Review, Summer 2012

"his mother sees the fear leaping from him like flecks of foam: /
it is more than a squeal ringing in her ears; it is a throbbing in her intestine, /
a pulse that makes her run back and forth, wailing."


©2021 by Sarah Kain Gutowski

Updated April 2021