KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions

Hunter Blackwell

Foundations

Sweat droplets slide down my forehead. Flies hone in on burgers and beans.
A couple tables down laughter roars. I fight off flies
and the urge to scratch. Mom huffs, not thinking it’s too hot
for my eczema- she’s always wrong.
And I say nothing, gently hitting the scaly patch of dry skin.
She fusses if she sees me scratching.
 
Park benches are cramped, spreads of warming sodas and waters,
with fried chicken and fish, the potato salad sits right next to greens.
Shoulder to shoulder we sit, our cheeks pinched,
ringlets of cotton pulled as they grow from young girls head
who dare defy the hot comb--
aunties are ruthless, quick to debate who has good or bad hair.
 
Tomorrow, the older ladies will be dressed to their nines:
lace detailed shapeless dresses with hats to match, the fat of their feet
squeezed into stubby black heels, stockings making their legs ashy.
They’ll stomp and shout. “Preach on,” the choir cries, waving flimsy paper fans,
half of them advertising the local funeral home.
I will stare out of old stained glass windows, wishing sand would leave my mouth.
 
After church, the drive will be quiet, while looking out at over greenish- brown water.
Mom made a comment about an ill-fitting pair of pants on Friday.
When Saturday rolled around there was no mention of JCPenney.
Dad will sigh when I walk in and say, “No luck with Mom.”
He’ll offer to toss the football. I won’t be able to hold any extra weight.
 
But I am still on a park bench, as our family flesh melts
in a thick wet heat, next to hips that bump me by accident,
hips that widened and birthed the possibility of me,
next to stripped stomachs that carried legacies,
next to worn hands that smoothed my cheeks and said
I was becoming a beautiful young lady,
next to hands lingering too long at my doughy waist.

Biography

​Hunter Blackwell (she/her) is a poet and author. Her previous work as appeared in The Write Launch, Barren Magazine, Nightingale & Sparrow, among others. She can be found at her website hunterblackwell.wordpress.com or @hun_blackwell on Twitter, where she’s always looking for new recipes to try. 
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions