My mother’s stories wearied me
so I cut off my ears.
I clipped them onto the clothesline in the backyard
next to the wet socks and flapping underwear.
My mother hummed herself a romantic tune at the kitchen sink.
The noon sun burnt the ears.
They stiffened into leathery strips of salted fish.
My mother stopped speaking.
* * *
This piece originally appeared in Issue 8, Eleven Eleven Journal of Literature & Art on 2008-2009.