until she hawks it
to turn the lights back on,
mama keeps a silver tea service
on a block glass windowsill
that smells like cold iron
in between Saturday morning chores
and sips of her coke and whiskey
she squints her milky eyes
at my innocent form
I sit on my knees
devouring Alcott’s world pointedly
avoiding polishing the delicate
stem of the teapot, round belly
full of promise and pretense
the rattling stopper dry for years
in spring mornings she sways
wisps of brown hair escaping
loose top-knot bun
aiming her knobby finger at me
red polish chipped and faded,
“I like it tarnished,” she sighs.
Author Bio:
Jessica Evans is the student editor of The Louisville Review, social media intern for Evening Street Press, and an active member in her local writing community. In addition to being a current MFA student at Spalding University, in Louisville, Kentucky, she am also a member of Salon, a monthly poetry group founded by the editors of Pudding Magazine. Her work has appeared in The Commonline Jounal and The Glass Coin.