Inheritance

by Alison Hurwitz


Oh, Too Much.  Why do I always
seem to get the seat right next to you?
You with the hairspray, the life story,
the throw cushions, the buffet. You with
the body (parts of which
I’m borrowing,) every layer saying something
you insist I hear, you with your tongue-swollen
modifiers, your squirrels stealing every bite
of food I saved for feathered scarcity. Your words,
their Too Much light and sound and brightness,
the way they come too close and pinch
my cheeks and say how much I’ve grown.
Too Much, you’re frenetic. I wish you’d give me
space, someplace far and dark and weightless,
a moon where every word can crater its own ending,
where one small step can be both shuffle in the dust
and leap. Why am I, your daughter, left behind
to go through all your pockets? Why must I talisman
your leavings?  Why am I never enough?


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Alison Hurwitz is a feminist, non-traditional wedding and memorial service officiant, editor and poet. Her work has most recently been featured in Global Poemic, Words and Whispers Journal, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus Volumes 1 and 2, and received an honorable mention in Tiferet Journal’s annual poetry competition.  On the second Saturday of each month, Alison facilitates a free online poetry reading, Well-Versed Words. Poets interested in appearing on Well-Versed Words may contact her at wellversedwords@gmail.com. She lives with her husband, two sons and rescue dog in North Carolina. Find links to her work at www.alisonhurwitz.com