The Shallow Ends
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TWO TRUTHS & A LIE

12/13/2018

 
                    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.






​​
Picture
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.

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