the woman with a cigarette curses upwards
death takes too long she says
she grows inside out to house her flaws
laughs again despite the walls she laughs
despite the persistence she laughs
her raspy voice passes through me and flows into
another ear calling for a child is there
a different past, mother, in which i’m familiar?
all this blood i’ve watered and thinned
the air still weighed by fatigue
there’s this hidden movement underneath
violent falling overhead fading
mother, have we ever had a home? the phone
is ringing and i broke this mirror for you
because i think of it as sacrilege green eyes
with a cigarette inspecting me she says look to
the ground it’s your future it ripples and carries.
white smoke a fleeting breath above water reaches the line ∎
Words by Ayna Li Taira. Art by Alisa Musatova.