‘My Freak Show Family of Origin’ & Other Works
Clara Gillin is a rising artist, photographer and writer- as well as highschooler balancing her time with school work and many extra curriculars. She doesn't shy away from challenges, starting multiple of her own clubs and managing top grades while exploring her interests. After winning a district-wide writing contest, she's submitted to many different artists’ outlets in hopes of being discovered and sharing her art with the world.
My Freak Show Family of Origin
I. My Mama, The Bearded Woman
lost her teeth in a hayride crash
had mole on her chin, her beard fit right in
to hide the damage she hoped
wouldn't wreck her chances for true love
II. My Daddy, The Iron Man
No feeling in him, not a single tear.
You could put his hand to a hot stove,
he wouldn't scream if you held it there.
He'd show me the blisters
that ruined his palms.
Impossible to read.
We never knew when he'd move on.
He could disappear
then reappear after years of being gone.
His life line faded, his heart line erased
his head ran off with his fate
leaving me and my brother to bill ourselves
The Two-Headed Princess & DogBoy
with a bark to startle the lions in their cages!
III. At the End of Our Act
a recording of lions roaring played
from speakers near the entrance of our tent
so people were afraid to go but they had to
pay to stay. We always got extra that way.
IV. Encores!
I left the touring life and my second head behind.
I ran away to the Real World where I got to marry
have kids and keep things clean all the time.
But still I breathe that broken-
peanut-shell-scented air and miss
the shit-stench of the elephants
and their animal hides, lighting effects
and trumpety sound cues, how
I never had to say good-bye
to anyone and the applause
like a rainshower in the heat
feeling I was loved knowing
how long they stood in line to see me.
Iphigenia Coaches the Sacrificial Virgins of the United States of America
Girls, girls, girlsgirlsgirls, listen up! Don't be like me
or Athena—she wasn't born from the head of Zeus.
Birth cannot be appropriated by men, not even gods.
Repeat after me: my body, my power! My body, my power!
Speaking from my own experience: don't be a Daddy's Girl.
You don't need a stone to cling to. Step back from that volcano
that knife, that axe. Whatever they try to do to you, take your power back!
Never accept as fate their ask. Pray to your own gods.
Gnosis is a great look. Don't offer your throat.
You don't have to use the words they choose for you.
Any girl can language her own heart.
Once you're replaced by a doe, once you become their Miracle
once they stand for you in awe, it's too late! Too late!
You think you want easy posture tips? How to hide your bellies & hips?
Reality check: they don't care what you got. About you, it's not.
Image equals launch-ability, theirs. Cause ships need wind in their sails.
You need sovereign status, don't get caught between rocks and hard places.
Basalt backgrounds for selfies might seem earthy but cross your legs.
Legislate freedom across all your open spaces. Legislate!
Maximize your sweat with deeds. We all know sacrifice is hot!
Don't be used to launch a fleet. Make your life what you want.
Don't lean into that male pov, use your agency and power.
Be your own role model, you're not a wilting flower.
Don't take his side. No suicide, no matricide, no genocide—
say with me with pride, we will decide:
my body, my power! My body, my power!!!
Vagina Takes Your Order in the Penis Diner
It seems so normal for a woman to be a waitress
Can we even imagine being something abnormal
Of course (w/curse) I'm also necessary
as waitresses always are to take your order
(and I get it, please, pardon me for interrupting
the title was the editor's idea, I'd never
assume so much without balls of my own—
tits/my own gonads don't count, I know that).
Special today is a sleek skyscraper towering
over deeply-creviced fruit trees (is that a defect
d'ya think, even though we multiply) fissures
where who-knows-what-goes-on on a bed of bulges
those knots where branches never become—think of how
we never really achieve much, nothing to do with
how we're taxed or forced to filter penis-world ways
(the imposed title seeps into my attempt to show you
gently without rancor, please don't let me trigger you).
I thought I was policing my tone, taking care
to not upset the apple-cart (apples are not a part of this
old news, not bringing that up). I'm still struggling
to put on this pink (scratchy) uniform to try to act
like a lady equivalent to a cardboard cut-out
plus sweaty legs in tights that squeeze
even after the corsets and the girdles got tossed
I'm still locked inside this body you think shouts vagina!
Most of the time I don't even notice
there's a hole you'd like to fill. (More coffee?)
Stop my mouth, stop all the holes when I'm not even
aware you're thinking of me since I'm not thinking of you.
I'm on the clock. (Did you think rag?) I work
a shift. I'm paid to smile—it's part of my job.
Emma Goldman-Sherman's plays have been produced on 4 continents and include "Abraham's Daughters" based on their documentation of human rights abuses during the first Intifada available as a podcast at TheParsnipShip.com. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in The Bellingham Review (finalist for the 49th Parallel Award), Eckleburg, Toyon (w/Arabic translation), Gigantic Sequins (1st prize), Exist Otherwise, Writers Resist and others. Emma's micro-chapbook, "Possible Paths for the Minotaur," is forthcoming as part of the Ghost City Press Summer Series. Their microfiction is anthologized in Best Microfiction 2025 and the Fish Anthology of 2023. They have received support from ATHE, Ragdale, Millay, WordBridge, LMCC, and others. They work as a neuroaffirming coach, teach for the Dramatists Guild Institute and PlayPenn, and support writers and artists at https://www.bravespace.online/
