Happy Hour with My Mother
BY AJANAÉ DAWKINS
I knew I was grown when we swapped
virginity stories at the bar. Too sweet
pomegranate martinis against our lips. A neon
sign humming into the wall. Once, you too
made love for the first time. We have both made
terror and other things. Remember— at 16,
you put my hand on the Bible to swear I hadn’t
made love? I’m grown and can confess I’ve made
more. I’ve made fog. Flower fields. Green. I’ve made
honey and slug. I’ve made winter trees. I’ve made
another self within myself. I’ve made ghosts
who would haunt the men who were making
with me. Between the ghosts, I made idols
of love. O golden calf. Right now, the vodka in my blood
is making something against loneliness. I didn’t lie.
It was years until I could make love and when I did,
I made more.
