Poetry by Darla Mottram
My mouth is a cave.
Sorrow is.
A pinprick in skin—wherein germs enter the vast structure of my being.
The smallest thing can kill you.
A word is a stone you toss in front of you to see how deep.
Deeply I entered.
Cavern of ear whorl.
Lost in the sound.
Went to feel, not to find.
A cunt is a cave, not a woman.
Have you ever been spelunking?
Picture it—utter interiority.
Alone with it.
Alone inside the split earth.
Darla Mottram resides in Portland, Oregon, where she works as a florist at New Seasons Market and occasionally teaches creative writing. She holds an MFA from Portland State University and is the creator of Gaze, an online literary journal interested in the intersection between seeing and being seen. She is currently seeking a home for her first full-length poetry manuscript. You can find more of her work at darlamottram.net