For each issue of Literary Mama, Literary Reflections shares a writing prompt, inviting our readers to respond. Our editors provide feedback on the responses we receive, and we post our favorites on the blog.
For the mother who rises / in darkness to baby sleep noises / sigh tiny cough exhale little grunt // blanketed in the film of her eye, / tucked into her heartbeat. / She cries over capturing her own silent film. // This is a new year of industry. / Tears soaking her palm, she prays hard / to the one God above the sanctuary– ...
Mama sprinkled sumac on greasy burgers / because fast food smelled like burning tires. // Aleppo pepper drizzled like red rain / on the macaroni and cheese. She added // a pinch of cumin on the Cobb salad / because the ranch dressing felt naked // on her tongue.
I doubt she'll return / the things she's taken— / a lipstick, tweezers, a necklace. // I'm not too mad, except maybe in the moment— / when I'm in the shower, leg lathered, reach for the razor / I'd left on the lip of the tub.
My mother had never been late for a concert. Preparations for each 7:30 performance began in the morning when she would hang her white “band” shirt like a basket of begonias on the front porch, where it could bleach in the best sun.