A semi-blue carpet filled with construction dust, spray oil, menstruation blood
of many generations.
My mother dances around every night, telling us
stories from our childhood, wasn’t I the heaviest one, mama?
Didn’t we turn into a clump of fruitless mulberry trees?
The carpet is dull and it walks as tile—
mother’s toes making sure its flat and true
for us all to walk on and on.
One time we had a cock roach infestation, so we had to move the furniture inwards,
and underneath, the carpet was as blue as a perfumed oak chest.
~~
Madison King is a poet from the Central Valley of California. She is an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Idaho. Her poetry, prose, and art has appeared in journals like The Meadow, 805 Lit + Art, and Orpheus. She has a cat named Odysseus.
