by Ainsley Dodson
well my mother?
she was born here
she was born with a hernia
that’s not a metaphor
but here’s one.
plastic walled containers
and chocolate almonds
covered almonds in cubicles
fingers curl under
the blister, the almonds shake
another.
there’s a white vest
on the floor of a thrift
embroidered
coverings standing on
stall hooks while vessels
drape in dressing rooms
another.
seven grapes in a
cluster but three are
stuck together
a fact.
your skull is pulled back as you eat
you’re so much softer as you die
a hernia.
you laugh and we share a meal
you laugh and i feel like i know you
© Ainsley Dodson
Ainsley Dodson (she/her) is a poet, writer, and editor from Houston, TX. She is currently completing her undergraduate degree in Classics with a minor in Creative Writing at the University of Colorado Boulder. Her work is interested in identity, mundanity, and the infinite ways to elicit a smile.
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