Leaving Mother & God

Mother threshed wheat
seeds from my bosom
peeled impurity from skin
laid bare under sun.

Mother sacrificed me,
sifted rotten from ripe,
until I remained chaff
ploughed over dirt

then burned. Mother
planted herself above me
nourished thistles through
harrowed flesh until I pruned

Mother’s roots repeatedly
from my throat, scraped
rock and ash, carved out
canyons, unearthed.

I ascend,
faith abandoned beneath
pocked feet and hands
tilling soil from lungs
to sow daisies.

Bailey Quinn is a graduate from Brigham Young University with a B.A. in English. She is a transplant from Florida to Utah, where she enjoys taking walks in the mountains with her husband, daughter, and dog, Chewie.