top of page
You do not have to tell me, but I will listen
Darian Kuxhouse
My mother once told me
of the back country boys that
crowded her front porch,
their hands on bottles and her
momma turning on music so
that people would start dancing.
I tried to imagine opening up
my porch, putting salt on corona
lips at 14. I knew my taste and she
was learning her charm. I kept
my crushes hidden, my experiences
garden variety, failing to bloom under
the heat of her life. I’ve met
those porch boys’ descendants,
tried not to force my fist
into their hollow skin.
I am not my mother’s protector
although I am her sole
confidant. She is neither
of mine
Fall, 2017 Issue
bottom of page