My mother comforts me after a breakup
I could never break a heart.
No, I have deconstructed aorta,
atrium, ventricle with my finest pair
of kitchen shears & built an exhibit
of pinky gloss. An ode to fetishizing
sadness with Good Grips.
Wallowing is pedestrian my mother
told me as she soaked asparagus
in an ice bath. Shocked stalks
in their tender greenness,
frozen in a feeling but still.
Still, indelible
I remember how a serrated knife
in my throat became honeysuckle
candies when he listened to me.
How no one had listened before.
Navel gazing is tiresome my mother
told me as the meatball mixture
stuck underneath her nails. The oil
& residue patched her palms.
Her animated gestures like a bird
who has not grown into their wings.
When I was small enough to fit
in her lap criss-cross applesauce,
her mascara tears stained my soft
fleshy thighs. She shoo-ed me off
& picked at the black crust, reddened
skin & then like it was never there.
The kitchen smelled of seasoned
squishy meat. I dug my heels
into the softness of sentimentality.
I imagined myself a tundra, scraping
away pastures, leaving behind lakes
in the shape of my palm.
No, I have deconstructed aorta,
atrium, ventricle with my finest pair
of kitchen shears & built an exhibit
of pinky gloss. An ode to fetishizing
sadness with Good Grips.
Wallowing is pedestrian my mother
told me as she soaked asparagus
in an ice bath. Shocked stalks
in their tender greenness,
frozen in a feeling but still.
Still, indelible
I remember how a serrated knife
in my throat became honeysuckle
candies when he listened to me.
How no one had listened before.
Navel gazing is tiresome my mother
told me as the meatball mixture
stuck underneath her nails. The oil
& residue patched her palms.
Her animated gestures like a bird
who has not grown into their wings.
When I was small enough to fit
in her lap criss-cross applesauce,
her mascara tears stained my soft
fleshy thighs. She shoo-ed me off
& picked at the black crust, reddened
skin & then like it was never there.
The kitchen smelled of seasoned
squishy meat. I dug my heels
into the softness of sentimentality.
I imagined myself a tundra, scraping
away pastures, leaving behind lakes
in the shape of my palm.
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Grayson MackGrayson Mack lives and writes in Denver, Colorado. She graduated from Grand Valley State University (B.A.) with an emphasis on creative nonfiction and poetry. During the day, she works as a product manager in the technology industry.
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