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    We Slept Here
    We Slept Here
    We Slept Here
    Ebook45 pages20 minutes

    We Slept Here

    By Sierra DeMulder

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    We Slept Here is a case study in vulnerability and honesty. In this sequence of memoir-esque poems, Sierra DeMulder pulls at the threads of a past abusive relationship and the long road to forgiveness. The poems themselves become that which was taken from her. These are hard poems, made up of clarity and healing, which attempt to share some of their peace with the world.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherButton Poetry
    Release dateJan 4, 2020
    ISBN9781943735129
    We Slept Here
    Author

    Sierra DeMulder

    Sierra DeMulder is the author of four other collections of poetry (The Bones Below, New Shoes on a Dead Horse, We Slept Here, Today Means Amen) and the co-host of the relationship advice podcast Just Break Up. She lives in Albany, NY with her wife and daughter.

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    Reviews for We Slept Here

    4.5/5

    43 ratings3 reviews

    What did you think?

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    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      Wow. Just wow. Thank you Sierra, for writing this beauty.
    • 5/5
      Beautifully heartbreaking. Spoke to my soul. I loved every single poem.
    • 5/5
      Quick read but very meaningful. The poetry resonates a lot about the poet's past and in the end it all summed up to forgiving oneself.

    Book preview

    We Slept Here - Sierra DeMulder

    Rain"

    AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE YOU

    Who am I

    if I am not

    the aftertaste

    of abuse?

    The offspring

    of your temper

    and your fat

    white pills?

    I don’t know

    what will be left

    of me if I dump

    the curdled milk

    down the drain.

    Sometimes I just

    like to look at it,

    open the fridge

    and let the cold

    sharpen my skin.

    Be someone

    who bought

    milk once.

    A poet told me

    to write about

    you. Write it

    out, honey.

    As if you were

    a fever or

    a horse to break.

    As if you don’t

    already show up,

    uninvited,

    unbeckoned,

    into every poem.

    Your hand

    guides my wrist

    as I write this,

    even now.

    MY SISTER REMEMBERS

    the sharp, feral way our father spoke

    to the maker of his children.

    How his whole face became a mouth.

    How he hissed and spat and

    huffed like a hell engine. How our

    mother became more chair

    than voice, her whole body an opening.

    An echo chamber. How he

    said words we did not know but knew

    were bad and would repeat

    like gaudy hyenas to our cousins.

    How we too became animals.

    How she went limp as a snipped lily,

    a wax doll going soft next to

    the stove. It is not that my father yelled

    and it is not that my mother

    received his yelling. It is that we

    remember them like this,

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