Poetry by Hawke Trumbo
My mother taught me to slow dance.
She placed my left hand on her shoulder,
my right hand in her left.
Her right palm rested on the curve
of my spine.
Pre-fab flooring supported our steps
as my feet shadowed her glide.
We swayed in a Virginia valley
to the tune
of a Rocky Mountain hiiiiigh Colorado.
We saved time in a bottle,
lulled by the easy silence
of our pine and oak audience.
We twirled in kitchens,
perfected our timing to strums
’bout poems prayers and promises.
We pivoted as a teenager
found her feet and a mother learned
to loosen her grip.
Our arms stayed firm,
so we never lost each other.
Hawke Trumbo (they/them) is an East Coast writer and graduate of Chatham University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Their work has appeared in Coffin Bell and for the Western Pennsylvania Disability History & Action Consortium.
