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Sanctuary
By Paislee Jahed
QuailBellMagazine.com
My mother slips her fingers
through my golden brown hair as we sit on the walnut staircase. We count each end break and even strand. Saying goodbye to the pieces taken over by fluorescent feet. Trying to brush away the nuisance of a first grade classroom. She takes ten inches of childhood into one braid. She tells me: Lullabies of a younger time wouldn’t do any good. This is how a girl grows up. I hear the echoes of scissors cutting Samson’s hair: setting him in place. The inches that graced the ground would have impressed Delilah, too. Sister. Now, ask me about our childhoods; Any question will do. I’ll tell you a story About listening through vents. Any question will do. How did our mother hear of your pregnancy? We listened through vents. She wept without breathing. How did she hear of your pregnancy? By carrier pigeon (our uncle spoke quietly) On a Sunday evening, she wept without breathing. Hospital blood from her fourteen year old self. A carrier pigeon on a Sunday morning aborted a child without mourning. Memories of her fourteen year old self, creeping. We listened through vents without speaking. My mother aborted a child without mourning; I’ll tell you a story about how We listened through vents without speaking. Now, ask me about our childhood. #Unreal #Poetry #PaisleeJahed #Abuse #ListeningThroughVents #ThePast #Trauma Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. CommentsComments are closed.
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