She learned her hunger from
the southern sun which laps
against car windows, blistering
pool water until it glitters like
a knife. Who could blame her,
her body licking like fire, known
to itself as her hips hum little
laundry songs. When you hear
hushed voices, you lean in.
A poem about my mother
I am writing a poem about my mother
the way I always do, through water, so
her body dilates. I cannot write her arms
a discernible length, her hands open
or closed, only her figure above and
the places I knew to go under my skin
where I could chime quietly. She taught
me how to hold my breath as she had
for years. I heard that she could sing
before I knew her.
Arlyn LaBelle is a poet and legal assistant living in Austin, Texas. Her poems have appeared multiple times in the Badgerdog summer anthologies as well as Words Work, Persona, The Missing Slate, The Blue Hour, LAROLA, JONAH Magazine, The Oddville Press, Songs of Eretz, Cease, Cows and The Southern Poetry Review.