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Hannah Kinsey Spring Cleaning My father’s voice lingers in the closed rooms of the house. His bass breaking songs in the kitchen. His imprint with the bones of a book in the chair. His image when the light flickers in the barn. My mother gathers herself in them rocking into the wood as the dead do. She goes backwards over the thresholds Barefoot, digs her toes into the gardens of self that grow in an old house— the supporting beams, the acres of hung clothes, the stains of laughter, words trapped between the couch cushions. The closets have marvelous weeds and thorns of smell fertilized by dust the moths make— they neglect to migrate when sweaters do. I ask my mother why she refuses to wind the clocks, drain the tepid bathwater rather than run the tap. She says she prefers it this way, how some like to read the last page of a story first, imagine a great love at the close or sink into the couch like a stranger. 205

Profile for Mojave River Media

Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019  

The Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019 issue spotlights superb poetry and prose by brilliant contributors from around the globe. Enjoy 2...

Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019  

The Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019 issue spotlights superb poetry and prose by brilliant contributors from around the globe. Enjoy 2...

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