Weeds (Acentos Review)


Link to work: http://www.acentosreview.com/May_2016/sarah-moran.html

Weeds

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.


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