Mother
How do I explain what cannot be?
I let the water soften me.
Afloat, balancing beneath the salt you gave
the first time I could block out sound.
Sit up, then sink again.
My knees become islands in my gray water.
Whose life is this?
See, now I bathe in my own milk. •
December
We drove home, screaming
rap songs that we let define our adolescence.
We drove home screaming at Time.
In the drive-through we changed our minds,
waited in a rewardless line so we
could get milkshakes instead.
Jesse left his backpack in my car and I thought
about reading his notebook,
wondered if he’d care. Maybe he wouldn’t
but he probably would. I didn’t read the notebook; only brought it back.
On his break we ordered coffee and chai.
“McDonald’s,” Jesse said with a sigh. “I ate your Big Mac and found my McChicken\ under the couch this morning.”
This time, he ordered avocado toast,
healthy. I remembered the fish oil capsules
that fell out of his backpack. The toast was brought over and maybe I
was still high because I couldn’t stop staring at the pieces, fluorescent green.
Night flashed back, our basement dancing, brave.
Our eyes like rocks. Or crystals, or water.
Whatever. I didn’t read your notebook
only walked Benefit Street feeling
like a stranger, someone else’s backpack
across my shoulder.
I could be a student.
Escape artists, we move without moving.
I could be a kid. •
Flora Anderson is an interdisciplinary artist living in PVD, enrolled in a Master’s program for creative writing. Her poetry has been published in Mistake House Literary Magazine. When she’s not creating, you can find her with her two children or serving drinks at one of many local bars.
