©2019 by Sarah Kain Gutowski

Updated November 2019


from "A Woman: Split," Stirring: A Literary Collection, Vol. 16, Ed. 5, May 2014

"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."

from "A Woman,"

Stirring: A Literary Collection,

Vol. 16, Ed. 4, April 2014

"My brains for skull and sky. My hair for forests of ash
and alder; my flesh for moss beneath the leaves and clouds."

from "The Mistakes Our Mothers Make,"

Verse Wisconsin Online,

Issue 112

"Birthing was less a miracle and more of a letting go,
the release of a knot I’d carried for months
within my belly. I didn’t understand
the small, wet shapes that glistened under the early sun –
and their first sucks of air, their little hooves
kicking, silently, scared me."


from "Why Our Mothers Panic," Verse Daily, September 2012 and originally

The Southern Review, Spring 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"

from "What Our Mothers Know as Love,"

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."