Poets in Motion
We’re celebrating National Poetry Month with our first poetry contest. Submit your most artistic, emotional, or hilarious original poetry inspired by movement—whatever that means to you. Use #VocalNPM to enter.
My Earliest Memory
My mother and I were in the formal living of our house at the time. A house I don't even remember now. All the walls were painted white, but looked gray because the blinds were shut, the room was shadowed, and the lights were out. Dusty streams of light came streaming through white slits in the window. I was standing in front of a play kitchen. My mom was sitting on the couch in front of me. Her hair was longer, about shoulder length, and yellow. I was eating blueberry muffins. Or rather, I was chewing them up. Taking soggy handfuls of purpley-blue mush out of my mouth and cramming them into the fake plastic sink. I'm not sure why my mother didn't stop me, but she didn't. I think she was distracted. Perhaps on the phone. I don't remember thinking of much. I mostly remember the way it looked. And the way those soggy muffins felt between my tiny fingers.
By Megan Artus7 years ago in Poets
