In my house no blinds are open.
None of the pictures on the wall have
my father in them. My sister tells my
mother she has kissed a boy, but my
mother pays no attention. An empty
vase sits on the kitchen table. My mother,
like a dead flower in it. Empty beer
bottles, bupropion, & blackened
crackpipes cover the coffee table.
My mother stares off into the distance
with almond eyes that have no light.
Her thinning hair in tangles. Her body
a heavy burden. Cigarette smoke
hovers over her head. Water from
the tea kettle floods over the stove
as our breakfast burns. It is 7:30.
My sister fades into the dark hallway
& out of the door. The morning
light moves across my mother’s
feeble face. Walls begin to melt.
The smoke detector sounds.
I reach the door & open it.
Contributor’s Notes
Porsha Monique Allen received her MFA in poetry from Queens University of Charlotte in 2021. Her work has appeared & is forthcoming in Scalawag Magazine, Rattle, Belle Ombre, Blood Orange Review, Protean Magazine, Apricity Press, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Salamander Magazine, & elsewhere. Porsha was selected as a semi-finalist for Naugatuck River Review's 12th Annual Narrative Poetry Contest. You can find her on Twitter @porshamallen. She lives in Richmond, Virginia.
