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Trump’s Impact on My Relationship With My Mother - Zodia Doe

Throat just tight enough

to suffocate the rank, animalistic


grief, the grunts and moans

vulnerable as orgasm.


Thoughts just crowded enough

to subdue the vomit of panic at


the loss of my mother. The smell

of her underwear drawer, left open


in a dark room and of her bedsheets,

weeks overdue for laundering—


the sweetest, muskiest, sleepiest scent

that taught my nose what it smells like


for everything to be okay.

I don’t want to miss her.


T-mobile knows how

our conversations over the years


have metastasized with gaps and strains

as we stretch the cord


from left coast to bible belt.

The silence costs the same


as the i-love-yous but

I remember when


those vocal cords tuned the tones

that lullabyed my heart


into adulthood

no matter what her lips were saying.

 

Zodia Doe is a neurodivergent who has a deep and abiding love for underdogs. She has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Corporeal Lit Mag, Boats Against the Current, and others. Her favorite color is yellow.

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