A blush of night-bloom.
That exquisite last word.
In the type of family that could afford
To fall apart, a young girl grows
More hands than things to cling to. She’s
Just thumbnail innocence, motel white
Wallpaper thighs and perforated silence
In glitter flecked too-open hands.
In a scrapbook she redeems family like prayer.
See page 7:
When she was only her father’s trembling hand.
Repression as spectacle.
Her mother’s long goodbye.
See Page 12:
Her home’s silent era.
A way to make love with their eyes closed.
Her mother’s short sigh.
She tells each scrap the things
She used to tell them.
There are only 6 pages left now, and she’s said everything.
But not this.
Ian Campbell Hill is a 24-year-old writer from Wisconsin now living in Colorado. They’ve been published in The Meadow Literary Journal and Birds Piled Loosely.