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
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.