wildscape. literary journal

Mom Brain
by Lauren Merryfield

They call it Mom Brain—
like it’s scrambled, cracked,
but it’s quantum.
Multiverse multitasking,
nipple out, dinner on,
solving crises with a glance
and a fruit pouch.

She forgets her keys
but remembers
who likes crusts cut off,
which scream is real,
and how to silence
a tantrum with three syllables.

This isn’t fog—
it’s neural fire.
A beast reborn,
feral in love,
funny as hell,
and twice as sharp.

Muscle Memory
by Lauren Merryfield

She hums in the hum of the engine,
sways in the wheel’s slow turn.
Her breath is static between radio stations,
a whisper when tires kiss the curb.

Given away
before I could cry for her.
Gone
before I could know her name.
Seventeen when I found her again—
in the passenger seat, in the rearview blur,
in the way my hands flinch before impact.

The light turned green—
but my foot stayed frozen.
A blur of metal tore through the intersection,
horns screaming where I should have been.
Not luck.
Not hesitation.
Her.

She keeps me between the white lines,
pulls at the brake when I don’t.
A mother in muscle memory,
a ghost with a grip on my bones.

I never knew her voice,
but she sings when I drive,
low and cracked in the quiet.

Not yet, not yet.

More Information on "Muscle Memory": 
I felt this poem had context that was deep and fragile, so we reached out to Lauren to ask about the backstory for this piece. We highly recommend reading "Muscle Memory", reading the following explanation, and then reading the poem again.

"Muscle Memory—is one of the most personal pieces I’ve written, and it’s incredibly meaningful to know it stood out. I was adopted as an infant and didn’t know much about my birthmother, only that she was sixteen when she had me. When I started driving, I would sometimes feel a presence beside me—especially in close calls or bad weather. It was subtle, but constant enough to notice.

Years later, when I was 24 and adoption records were opened, I was contacted by my maternal birth family. That’s when I learned my birthmother had passed away in a car accident at just 21—on a stretch of road I’d unknowingly travelled countless times. The presence I had felt all those years suddenly made sense. Writing this poem was a way to honour that quiet connection. It felt like her."  -Lauren Merryfield

about the author // Lauren Merryfield