Aubade with Lobotomized Mountain
Maya Salameh
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2023 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Traditional Verse
my mother refused an epidural so I'd
never mispronounce anything. we drove
past the mountains once &
the radio trembled as if kissed
by static or God. I'm a sharkish girl,
rude mouth, new molars jagged
as cliffs. me & dad sit in the dip
of the Vandross & he tells me about his
city like it doesn't exist or like its
neighboring ocean is unemployed. says
shit like in Trablos morning is on everything
& I become an abundance in a thin seat,
asking the catechism teacher do
soldiers go to heaven? if someone
breaks into my house looking for bread
& I panic & bonk them with my skillet
which one of us gets punished. who
gets punished? the hospital I was born in
was called Zion. we drive past the mountains
I'm wearing striped shorts & flames
cling to the bluffs like an expensive dress.
I am four. maybe California's my true country.
maybe her fires. I pull a bag of tinted negatives
from my ribs. I was named after water.
This poem previously appeared in Palette Poetry.
