Weeds (Acentos Review)
Link to work: http://www.acentosreview.com/May_2016/sarah-moran.html
Her last meal was a self-served bullet.
I wondered how she went from Jukebox dancing
and smiles birthed from the pit of her belly to feeling
like this was the last thing she could stomach.
I wondered if she fabricated that smile in the
backroom of her devastation. The cold place where she housed
all the things she didn’t want the world to touch.
At 10 years old I only ever remembered how her smile led
the war against my own sadness. How my parents splitting
and my father’s violence ran at the sound of her excitement
of my arrival, shriveled and shrank as we dropped quarters
into that music machine, evaporated when the riff of Footloose
kicked up and how great it felt – to dance and be free.
The divorce didn’t matter. My fathers alcoholism didn’t matter.
The large and looming expansion
of my world didn’t matter. Just the music and her laughter.
Momma said it was the alcohol. It drug her already sad world down.
At 10 years old I wondered if that bullet tasted like Bud light, how she fell so low to swallow something so hollow.
At 33 I understand how sadness destroys the roots of where
our smiles grow.
How that sadness suffocates like a weed.