by Lu Dumke
Sparse eyebrows each wild black hair shooting into randomness. Forehead always pleated in suspicion. Fat blue veins distending from her hands seemed grotesque once until I discovered I have them too. The phone rings, and I visualize her as she stands discomposed at the other end of the phone line. I feel her ruffled movements outside of me a talent I retained from my months in the womb. Now she falls into her stance: hunched forward in her way. She complains that growing old is a punishment and questions me of her crime. She speaks in nervous circles as her dark, round eyes flicker afraid they'll miss a telling glance a reticent whisper. A lesson learned the day she looked away and he was gone. Her voice is almost girlish a falsetto shrill. And still I wait eagerly, each day for mother's morning call. |
Lu Dumke is a writer and the Publisher of the The Bean Field Creative Review
Send feedback to Grrowl!