The Blue Hours
1 Minute Read Time
My mother is an empress of the closed mouth.
She can look at any stone and decree it common
without saying a word. She sleeps with a revolver
under her pillow in a bed of diamonds and sweat.
When they came for our people, she tells me,
your grandmother hid an entire chandelier in her jaw.
My mother forces my mouth open with cold hands
and makes me practice holding a golden watch
under my tongue till I gag. She wakes me
in the blue hours of morning with vodka on her breath.
She brings me to the kitchen and forces me to eat:
slices of ham, peanut butter, raw steak.
I cry and she slaps me on the cheek with a hand full
of jeweled rings. And as steak blood drips down my chin
under her restless eyes she says:
If you knew half the things I’ve eaten, you wouldn’t be able to look at me.
Read more from Issue 17.2.