Melting Pot
mom removed her makeup and made three dinners after the diner. she ate hers last just as we finished our plates and glasses. she is absent from photos (a note: daguerreotype was blurry and slow, and to stop their children who might die from the vagaries of victorian life, victorian mothers would hold their shoulders to keep them still for the whole of the long exposure. she would wear a black veil, blurred out of the photos or positioned behind a chair as if she wasn’t there. they are called hidden mothers). once i snapped at her and she started to cry and even my quiet felt powerful in a way that made me want to cry myself, as if both our silences were my own. my tongue half…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2020