The floor slants itself, sends small slivers to snag
new socks. The wallpaper is perpetual Christmas,
a throwback to when my cousin had that Dorothy Hamill haircut,
and my best friend was a shredded blanket, made of starlight
starbright and stale cigarettes. There is a photo of her and me in the driveway,
our bare feet churning April puddles.
Another photo of us sitting in the yellowed
Captain’s chair, sticking out our tongues
at the ghost who captured this moment.
All the edges of this place are blurry.
The last time I lived here I was homeless.
An exaggeration, I guess, but what else do you call it
when your mother has left your father and you
have no permanent address to return to?
At a small kitchen table, my mother pours tea.
I wiggle a loose tooth until my gums hurt.
–
Hillary Smith-Maddern is an educator whose work explores the intersections of feminism, identity, and rage. She is a proud cat lady and an avid collector of neglected plants. When not writing, she can be found exploring obscure topics, hiking in the mountains, or passionately critiquing the patriarchy. Her poetry has appeared in Only Poems, Rogue Agent, and The Disappointed Housewife, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts.