Literary Orphans

Poppy Seeds
by Lauren Harsma

timeflies by victoriaaudouard

Poppy seeds are a trick my mother uses to dull pain – a teaspoon with the jam she spreads over her toast, a circle of them around the rim of her whiskey glass which she licks off like sugar.

My father and I like the seeds less than the whiskey. For me it’s how I picture them dissolving. The alcohol glazes her insides evenly – a good coat of paint. The seeds play flotsam and jetsam in her blood – ugly black mites tumbling around against her organs.

For my father it’s the look of them. They’re in a jar on the counter, one for flour – smooth, glass, airtight. He doesn’t like seeing them go, hates the unbroken ebb as my mother takes spoonful after spoonful; adds it to her tea, her meals, her homemade lotions. He’s afraid she loves the seeds more than him. One time he told her so. She got mad, said what’s wrong with that? You love your precious Allah more than me!

He didn’t cry but I think he wanted to. I think he always wants to and never does. I think he has nothing to cry about but my mother and he thinks that that isn’t enough.
–Story by Lauren HarmsaAdidas footwear | FASHION NEWS