Three poems by Sara Youngblood Gregory

you say my name

The only time you say my name

is when you are furious the hard

s is hot oil and smoke you push me

in the shopping cart at the end of the world

the shelves are empty you tell me accountability

is a deal breaker. The cheap metal shoves my shoulder

blades you tell me to stop being a brat

it stopped being cute last march.

The center of my 20s is housing instability

or maybe watching the world pandemic

& is it worth saying

our first memory was 9/11?

the second is a cold swimming pool.

Now you just sound like my father he kicked me out

two months after we met and exploded

you push me towards apocalypse with that word: accountability.

What am i supposed to do with a word i’ve never felt?

the shelves are empty and we’re behind the glass

everyone in this central florida town

they run around us because there is no water

but so much candy.


ten days before i am disowned my head spins three days after i am disowned (my mother

on the phone screaming i am sick) i am sick & the world (sick) starts to spin

again, but faster again, but full time

it’s the crystals in my ears it was the roadtrip the mountains the badlands the arizona desert that goddamn fire that plane to new york the altitudes or all three fill up ear canals full

of fluid the ocean & mother’s wet, young blood (how dare you write that) straight to my brain & suffocate