Like This by KATALYNA MOUA
scanning clothes, chocolates, and even a bag of rocks
as a mother and her child waited.
The child talked,
loud and quiet all at once,
hands grasping the edge of the counter I worked at
while his eyes observed the chipped wood that housed us,
warm and away from the white that laid outside.
He talked and talked,
and I listened and listened,
hoping the curve on my lips
hidden behind a mask could be seen in my eyes.
His mother waited alongside him,
eyes drifting to the back of the store
and then back to her child.
“Can you hush?”
She asked,
rough but not at all condescending.
But the child didn’t listen.
He touched his face with his little hands in boredom,
cheeks squishing and mask scrunching
all the while never quieting.
And as I watched the mother move down to her child a minute later,
take his hand gently into hers,
and heard her say “I love you, you know that?”
with a shine in her eyes—
In that moment,
it felt like the world stopped.
This page has paths:
- CREATIVE WORKS: POETRY University of Alaska Anchorage Department of English