Sarah Locklin

is a senior at Santa Clara University studying Spanish and Political Science with her eyes toward law school. A Bay Area native blessed with a diverse upbringing, she uses poetry and prose to process her experience as a mixed-race Latina woman in White America. She’s still learning to sit in her anger and pull no punches.

Women Carry Wounds Like Birthmarks

I add cotton and face masks and chocolate and
masa to the bullet holes
passed down
from my mother
like pearls.

Once, I traced the dull
echo of their throbbing
down my back,
where they flamed up
like mosquito bites found
in the insomnia of a sweat-soaked
summer night.

I patch, paste, pour
Bachata and lipstick and whiskey and
guarded chats with my telephone therapist
over the gashes— mine and
my mother’s and her mother’s
before her—

but each morning
I wake
to crimson blossoms.

pull the gauze
back over my eyes.


I am a glass of horchata
(Pronounce the “h”)
Served in a mason jar
Garnished with a stick of
“organic Mexican cinnamon”
Sitting on a dark oak bartop,
Cut at one end
by a wall of white-painted brick
Where a chalkboard labeled me
“Gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan”