taught me how to make my first fist,
how to stand up when being pushed down,
how to black the eyes of impossible odds.
She worked two jobs, sometimes three,
I don’t know when she slept,
but she always made breakfast,
smiling over the sizzling stove
in a bathrobe and slippered feet,
feeding us pancakes until we were sick.
Her infectious laughter held those walls up,
nails and boards like prayers against a tornado,
watching us grow like storm clouds
inside picture frames, flashes of lightning
changing the faces, with a love as constant
as the rain. Let her smoke her cigarettes.
About Jay Sizemore:
Jay Sizemore flunked out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print in magazines such as Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He's never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is currently available on Amazon.