Mama says,
“it’s time to keep on drowning
in the soul
bleach; our shared memories
bloodied the clockwork bends and
aged us into laundromat cycles—
I don’t remember
if I was dreaming
when my mother and I
filled the car with soap
of if we
are what hangs
on the clothesline. But I do remember
when the grass cut our eyes
open, and we were taught again
how to cry more than blood,
just like when Grandma didn’t die
but gave us her sewing tins.
We became her beaded necklaces;
these mothering bodies
have only been taught to love in winter jackets—
we only know it’s hot when it isn’t cold.”
Poem and photography by Hazel J. Hall.
Previously published in the YAS Poetry Series: An Anthology of Poems by USNH Students.
Hazel J. Hall 
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