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by Jess Smith My uncle used to dress my mother up in an old white nightgown, paint her skin sickly and have her lie silent in the attic, charging the neighborhood kids a dime to see the dead girl. My mother was very ill a few years ago, her flesh damp and malleable as dough. She wanted the curtains open. She has never been the same. My mother has never shot a gun. My mother married my father on a ski slope in Wyoming surrounded by strangers. She never said “I do,” my father said “She does.” My mother and father were married. My father is married to someone else, my father is a candle in every dark room but he’s the one who’s cut the power. I’ve come to save you from what I created. My mother is my father, my father is a man named Matthew, a man named James, a man named Andrew, a man named. My name would have been different in every way, certainly less sibilant. My mother is named after a Mouseketeer. I think your children should name you, instead. I would name my mother Citrus, I would name her Heathcliff, I would name her Daisy, Windswept, Stanza, Question, Diana, Hitchhike, Hera, Tolstoy. I would give my mother a new name every morning, waking up near her, the curtains open, seeing in her dawn face what might happen that day, who she might like to be.  photo by Michael Borshuk Jess Smith is currently pursuing a PhD in English & Creative Writing at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, TX where she co-founded and curates the LHUCA Literary Series. Her work can be found in Prairie Schooner, Waxwing, 32 Poems, The Rumpus, and other journals. See more at www.jesselizabethsmith.com. |