the bed may have been rumpled.
our legs crescents of unmeaningful lilts
drive into the bed skirt pushed early to flower,
fraught to conceal our steep, off-pitch giggles.
our mom’s face warps yellow & mistaken—we
burst light bulbs misread in all directions—she
thinks our bodies point at her, a hole
in her sock or her coffee coils too electric.
she, we, our arms a grove of disheveled yarn
stamps a now rumpled bed, our smiles
flipped negative, wilt into the bed skirt
her eyes wide blooms of unforgiveness
as if we burnt her soft forearms
with our misplaced, displaced giggles.
Allyson Jeffredo is a writer from the deserts of Southern California. She is a recipient of The Loft Spoken Word Immersion Fellowship, which allows her to teach creative writing and the arts to elementary students of San Bernardino. Her chapbook, Songs After Memory Fractures, has recently been released from Finishing Line Press. More of her work can be found at Slipstream Press, The Fem, Cider Press Review and others.
–Art by Ashley Holloway