shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Jared Pearce

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My mother made her devotions
At the alter of the ironing board
Before the image of daytime tv soaps.

Her feet planted, right arm
Hauling fabrics into plateaus,
Eyes barely missing the garbage

She called her shows. For commercials
She'd sometimes break, and I'd come
From parading my plastic animals

And hunt for cartoons when
There never were any, and she'd
Scatter me and take her stance

Perhaps dreaming of those miracles,
The loves and lusts beyond convention,
The pure, smooth desire chasing

She smothered in herself.