Aura Martin
She Tried to Hug Me (But I Pulled Away)
—Cento from The Color Master: Stories by Aimee Bender
I walked back, kicking twigs and acorns. I want to do better. I ate oranges off the tree out back. Downstairs, the man was staring out the window. I mean, why not just be happy the way things are? On the ground, birds pecked into nothing.
My mother sipped her sherry in the kitchen and sniffed. She hadn’t done dishes in weeks. Dad tilted his head down to his plate. I’m just noticing the patterns.
We sat and sipped, the warm tea spreading through my chest. The radio expelled old songs. My sister nodded lightly.
I once split my lip, jumping from the tree, and she sewed it up with ice and a needle she’d run through the fire. I’m sorry you have to go through this. The word marked by brake lights and bitten fingernails. Arlene, who made sure every used item went into the right bin because she wanted all things, everything, to find its way back into the world, new.
Keep looking. Those embroidered suns.
I saw myself, skipping through meadows in a yellow-and-blue-print dress. How to be a person? There was love to be felt, and discovered, still. There was a powerlessness that was kind.
I know I have major cavities. I climbed up a tree and waited.
I walked back, kicking twigs and acorns. I want to do better. I ate oranges off the tree out back. Downstairs, the man was staring out the window. I mean, why not just be happy the way things are? On the ground, birds pecked into nothing.
My mother sipped her sherry in the kitchen and sniffed. She hadn’t done dishes in weeks. Dad tilted his head down to his plate. I’m just noticing the patterns.
We sat and sipped, the warm tea spreading through my chest. The radio expelled old songs. My sister nodded lightly.
I once split my lip, jumping from the tree, and she sewed it up with ice and a needle she’d run through the fire. I’m sorry you have to go through this. The word marked by brake lights and bitten fingernails. Arlene, who made sure every used item went into the right bin because she wanted all things, everything, to find its way back into the world, new.
Keep looking. Those embroidered suns.
I saw myself, skipping through meadows in a yellow-and-blue-print dress. How to be a person? There was love to be felt, and discovered, still. There was a powerlessness that was kind.
I know I have major cavities. I climbed up a tree and waited.
Biography
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Aura Martin graduated from Truman State University with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. She is the author of the micro-chapbook “Thumbprint Lizards” (Maverick Duck Press). Her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in 3 Moon Magazine, Flypaper Lit, and Poetry WTF?!, among others. In Aura’s free time, she likes to run and take road trips. Find her on Twitter @instamartin17.
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