Buttons were the first things I searched for after she died.
Two dollars my mother paid me to sort and match,
thread sets together from a feathered spool,
confront the meagerness, the mind-numbing repeat,
two days of it, breakfast to bedtime.
She handed over money with the usual regret.
“Always in the moon,” she said.
“You didn’t even try.” I was a big-time dreamer
born on the wrong day.
Sky over South Carolina
pierced with one hundred gray sunbeams.
There goes a state prison convoy of six white vans.
Somebody sings. Somebody cries.
Miriam C. Jacobs is an alumnus of the University of Chicago and teaches college writing, literature, and humanities. Her poetry is forthcoming or has appeared in Exit 271 (Georgia Writers Association), Reform Jewish Quarterly, Jewish Literary Journal, The East Coast Literary Review, and Calliope, among other publications. Jacobs is the editor of Eyedrum Periodically, the art/literature journal of Eyedrum Art & Music Gallery, Atlanta. Her chapbook of poems, The Naked Prince, was published by Fort!/Da? Books in September 2013. You can find out more about her here: http://www.miriamcjacobs.com and https://www.facebook.com/miriamcjacobs/.