MADDIE CLEVENSTINE

Abecedarian In Which My Mother Is Displayed As The Lumpfish On The Museum Wall

All things considered, she doesn’t look too
bad all flattened out on parchment.
Crinkled and almost leathered, sure, but
dynamic all the same: in her mind she’s
Eve, plant clothed and sparkling,
fair lady hung up to be admired. A
glistening specimen deserving of this curation,
heavenly hooked to the wall
inviting applause. For her, it’s
just that easy to scrap herself, cleanse off the
kaleidoscope of everyday, commit to this
long haul of speciation. What I’m saying is—

mother, I spend all my days making my way here,
note-taking on the way your scales reflect
opaque shapes in the mid-morning light, my own
poor excuse for a keepsake sandwiched in this
quieted room, the slanted
rays of afternoon fracturing you into
smalled delivered pieces, your eyes almost
translucent at the right angle. Still,
unlike your fellow installations, I half expect you to
vanish, pull yourself from the wall,
walk right out those museum doors, go
‘xactly where you always go, where I’ll always find
you, freckled skin falling like scales on the bar floor,
zealously telling the bartenderoh I’ve been admired.