Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
I Tell My Son Last Kiss

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His dry lips touch mine. He murmurs the story
about a lost shadow, a clock and crocodile.
He points to the ceiling, traces the sticker stars:
this star his, that star mine. I tell him last kiss.

Tonight, stone-carved newsmen stand in front of a school.
Every mother with a child in the bathtub or a child eating
leftover pizza feels the bang: a child’s cold bed,
a child’s folded pajamas, a child’s dry toothbrush.

Lock my love in your brain, I whisper. My son turns
an invisible key near his ear. He tongues click click.

I hear a rhythm sounding out from his bedroom:
not breath or heart, like God only more real,
more flesh, the sound of us all tumbling
toward some precipice together, the mothers,
the shooters, and all our sleeping children.


Allison Blevins received her MFA at Queens University of Charlotte and is a Lecturer for the Women’s Studies Program at Pittsburg State University and the Department of English and Philosophy at Missouri Southern State University. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as the minnesota review, Sinister Wisdom, Pilgrimage, and Josephine Quarterly. She lives in Joplin, Missouri, with her wife and two children.


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That was outstanding. Proud of you!
Beautiful. Thank you.
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