8

Alia Hamada Forrest

Inside the Gingerbread House

Again I find myself a sandwich-maker,

I yearn for more, a song inside my head,

I could have been a poet or a baker.

Now I lay in ache and quiet, here in bed.

Some say seven ate nine, but they’re wrong

I can tell you it’s the children that can eat.

I count all day, fingers sore, two thumbs gone.

A dried up tortellini at my feet.

Although there are 8 million socks around the house,

And lots more rotten bits behind the shelf,

I can tell you all about the fox.

I can tell you all about the elves.

Peppermint, molasses, hold on tight --

Fatten up kids -- I can hear your bites.

Did you have previous associations with this number before making this work?

Not necessarily -- I know that when the number eight lies down on its back, it becomes infinity.

What inspired you to make this piece?

I started thinking about the monotony of my day-to-day experience as a parent, how it goes on and on and on. The poem was initially called "8 million socks" because there are baby and kid socks in every corner of my house. As I was looking around my surroundings for inspiration, I thought to myself -- can I still write sonnets? This is what came out. What was fun about writing this poem is -- the voice of the speaker was flexible depending on the setting. Was this Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's? Was this a frustrated mother? Was this an old lady in a gingerbread house? Infinity is terrifying. While writing, I thought of the old witch in Hansel and Gretel and what she might do when she's home alone, waiting for her next meal.

Aside from a response to this number, what does the work say to you now that you've made it?

I CAN write a sonnet!

Alia Hamada Forrest is a poet, though she often forgets this superpower as she is also a mother of two young children and the executive director of a nonprofit. She is originally from Phoenix, AZ, but has lived in Boston, MA for half her life. Although Alia loves working with people, her favorite hobby is being alone.