His mother was strange

in the notorious Chanel No.5
fame. In spring she sold hard
liquor at noon & cosmetics during
third shift. Everyone in this little
town knew of her tall tales;
they called her Mad Molly while
waiting by her counter, anticipating
the telltale sign of her white
sling back heels announcing their
departure. They say she’s ravenous,
eats men like cherry pastries. They
say her rose lipstick was pristine even
when she pulled back the sheets
and found her son’s carcass, even
at Sunday mass. It’s baffling,
they say, as they hear the click-
click-click come close, almost
satisfying. She says a mother’s
grief rings with the clamor of the
rusting church bells in the square
but no one listens. She burns
family Polaroids in between shifts,
calls it an act of civil liberty,
applies lipstick in the darkness
of a child’s bathroom, where
the lightbulbs act like fireflies—
but only on Tuesdays—and she
gurgles mouthwash until foam
is spilling out and over onto cracked
teal tiles. But still she dabs on
sample size bottles of Dior perfume,
still has white French tips done every
Saturday, still drinks to oblivion, alone,
underneath the triceratops duvet
faded by years of sun exposure.

Ashley Hajimirsadeghi’s work has appeared in, or is forthcoming, Into the Void Magazine, Rust + Moth, and The Shore, among others. She is a poetry reader at both Mud Season Review and Ex/Post, attended the International Writing Program’s Summer Institute, and was a Brooklyn Poets Fellow. Her website is http://ashleyhajimirsadeghi.squarespace.com/