May 2017
My mother, placing things in my left
opulent smoke in her yellow hair,
her tired lips taking another drag.
I feel this as I push smoke into my throat,
using my left hand to the Marlboro.
My father, happening upon the other hand
I remember apologies he wrote on Post-its
to be read during kitchen-counter mornings,
as my right hand concludes
another sad poem.
opulent smoke in her yellow hair,
her tired lips taking another drag.
I feel this as I push smoke into my throat,
using my left hand to the Marlboro.
My father, happening upon the other hand
I remember apologies he wrote on Post-its
to be read during kitchen-counter mornings,
as my right hand concludes
another sad poem.
So I read an article that told about how infants learn their dominant hand based on which hand their parents place toys in, and was inspired to write this mess of a poem. Enjoy
