Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

my mother plays games

she charges more than i make in a week and i’ve seen her naked ass on a VHS i found in the garage. house calls are dog days of sitting in the van; waiting for her to come back. i am a ten percent margin of error, i think. the rings she has are not big enough for her and too big for me; i am lost in the curves of her webbed stockings; black widows lurk in corners i refuse to look through. mom taught me that love is like oyster shells and pearls are biographies we wear for sport.
Pattie Flint is an uprooted Seattle native toughing it out in New England and spends her days as an editor at Medusa’s Laugh Press specializing in hand-bound books. She has been published in Five Quarterly, Hippocampus and TAB, amongst others. She is currently working on her MFA at Cedar Crest College.

Categories: Poetry, Prose poetry

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