|||
The pause was pregnant.
Had babies.
Little hiccups.
They grew up into loneliness.
There was no cure.
Sometimes I see my mother in the mirror. Well, what are you doing there, I ask. We laugh, shaking out our curly hair. I’ve always been here, she says through the shower steam. She rubs some moisturizer on my nose while I gloss her lips. It’s just, I could’ve sworn you used to live somewhere else, I say. Like the attic, maybe. Or my coat pocket. We sigh. No one ever calls me mother anymore. We laugh. Me neither. Me neither.
I call your name from the bottom of a mountain. It’s midnight. You vomit your guts into my hands. They’re warm and pink. They smell like roses. It’s what sea cucumbers do when they get scared, you say. I don’t care what sea cucumbers do, I reply. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I hold the guts close to my face, and read them a bedtime story.
