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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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