is all my mother ever served, slathered on thick, impasto, acrylic joy. Anger melted on her tongue like rice paper candy as she skip- skip-skipped along her invisible Yellow Brick Road, dodging cracks and Alice potholes. I dared to ask why once, why she parried pain. She smiled hoarfrost, then buried me three layers down in lemon tiramisu.
Maureen Kingston lives and writes in Wayne, Nebraska. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Alehouse Press, Blue Earth Review, Paddlefish, Plains Song Review, Nebraska Life and the anthologies Words Like Rain and The Great American Road Show.