SmokeLong Quarterly

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Port of Spain

Story by Beverly A. Jackson (Read author interview) September 29, 2009

art by Robinson Accola

The veranda doors are open for the breeze. Outside the Trinidadian night is spangled like navy tulle. On the bed, I sprawl, my head heavy as hibiscus, watching Mother zip into another sequined gown. She stands before her dressing table where a silver brush, little pots of cream and rosy colors are assembled beside a row of crystal bottles. Her long fingers dab Joy to the inside of her wrists. I breathe the perfume in—down to my core. It makes rain on my insides. I giggle, kick my legs, squeeze eyes shut against the onslaught. “Are you being silly?” she asks, her black eyes catch mine in the mirror where she is now two mothers, front and back. She presses red lips to a tissue. I tumble to the floor, too small, assaulted, undone.

About the Author

Beverly A. Jackson is a poet, writer, and painter living in the N.C. mountains with two poodles, a cat, and a yard full of birds. Her work can be seen on the web and in literary journals for the past 10 years. She is a major fan of Randall Brown. Find her on the web at www.beverlyajackson.com and www.artshackstudio.com.

About the Artist

Robinson Accola creates artwork for SmokeLong Quarterly as needed.

This story appeared in Issue Twenty-Six of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Twenty-Six

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