He used to come up behind me, tell me
I’d make some man a fine wife.
Didn’t know
the kind of man I wanted,
if I wanted a man at all.
He knew
I washed the dishes clean,
ironed his work clothes neat.
Said if I could
watch my mouth, quit cutting
my teenage eyes in angst,
I might be fit to claim.
Didn’t know
when I got old enough, my grandmother
had to talk me out of changing my last name:
not to another man’s, but from his.
Header photograph © Heather Wharram.
Rachel Nix is an editor for cahoodaloodaling, Hobo Camp Review and Screen Door Review. Her own work has appeared or is forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum and Pidgeonholes. She resides in Northwest Alabama, where pine trees outnumber people rather nicely.
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