Pregnant Pauses
by Tammy Smith
Words are potent place-setters. Verbs like “kissing” can indicate inappropriate actions. Adjectives loom more significant than the nouns they modify. Dangerous Daddies. Be cautious of the hidden dangers people conceal in unexpected places. Possessions often reveal possessiveness.
Oh, the places you will go if you hold your breath long enough to hit “return” and press the home key firmly. Memorize all the shortcuts. Remember, it is far worse to control than to delete, so use the “shift” key often.
A true sign of grace is letting go of default settings. Adjust your margins for more space, and don’t forget to double-space your text. Insert quotation marks when necessary and use proper punctuation consistently. Run-on sentences can feel lazy.
I love Daddy, but when he holds me, squeezes me, and places me in awkward positions, I often forget to capitalize on those indirect objects that can change tenses. Missed periods can lead to erratic question marks, and a chapter may conclude with a contraction.
Rooted
You tell me that your father used to lock you inside his bedroom closet. Sprawled on my office couch, you thump a pillow with your fist, wiggling your stubby fingers between blows. I’m struck by how skillfully our bodies conceal secrets, each sigh a silent scream waiting to be heard. When you lick your dry lips, I can almost taste your fear. It reminds me of my first memory—crying in a crib, sticking my thumb through thick wooden bars. What if I get stuck reaching for what I can’t touch? It’s hard to understand parents turning away from their children. You squeeze your red-rimmed eyes shut, murmuring, I miss my dad. It’s enough for today. Grief seeks sleep. Sometimes it’s kinder to tuck pain away than to keep unpacking it. You need more time to trust I can carry the weight of your secrets. Our most meaningful sessions happen when I accept that I don’t need to know everything. As you reach for another tissue, I lean forward to listen—without memory or desire.
dig deep
for loose change
scattered between cushions
BIO
Tammy Smith, a poet and licensed clinical social worker from New Jersey, writes at the intersection of creativity and mental health. Her work appears in ONE ART, New Verse News, Grand Little Things, Platform Review, and elsewhere.
