swollen river…

swollen river
the thumbprint
of my newborn


22nd Indian Kukai – 7 points



motherly advice
she asks
if I’ve tried quaaludes


new boyfriend
I move down a number
on her speed dial


wedding day
my mother’s dress
more low-cut than mine


another sex talk
too weak
to slit my wrists


new porsche
her vanity plate


I learn the ways
I’ve failed


even her death
my fault


Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senyru – Issue 24

flash: BLUE

Her first birthday. My husband picked out her gift, a fuzzy blue blanket. When it arrived memories of my own blue childhood blanket trickled in. We were inseparable. Everywhere I went it came trailing behind me. Even in college, I kept it hidden in the back of my closet. I couldn’t let go. As I watch my daughter curl her little fingers around her now beloved blankie, I find I long for that same sense of security. For her it’s a symbol of the love and comfort of us, her family. Something I lost long ago. I ache for that peace. That ease of consolation. The family that came with it. Maybe for my daughter it will be different. Maybe she will never know what I have known. Maybe I can offer what I was never given. Over the years, I have learned to cope on my own, grieve on my own, heal on my own. I hope one day she will look back with fond memories on this blue blanket. And that for her it will always hold a place of security, and will never have to be a little girl’s shield from an unforgiving world.


*this is a piece of flash memoir that was published on the blog Lost Paper

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