In lieu of air conditioning
by Bet Lewis
Mom snaps
the shirt off and
over my head
giving my arms no choice
but to acquiesce.
She holds my T-shirt
under the tap. I press
my bare, flat chest against the cool
porcelain of the pedestal sink
to watch the fabric absorb and darken.
She wrings it out
and up-nods her head—
her subtle command for me to
raise arms
into the dark cool shirt.
She sends me to bed,
a drop of water sliding
down my leg.
Bio: Bet Lewis uses writing, photography, and digital collage to explore and understand how various ego-states develop and effect the self. She holds a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and resides in Indianapolis with her partner, daughter, and two worthless cats.
by Bet Lewis
Mom snaps
the shirt off and
over my head
giving my arms no choice
but to acquiesce.
She holds my T-shirt
under the tap. I press
my bare, flat chest against the cool
porcelain of the pedestal sink
to watch the fabric absorb and darken.
She wrings it out
and up-nods her head—
her subtle command for me to
raise arms
into the dark cool shirt.
She sends me to bed,
a drop of water sliding
down my leg.
Bio: Bet Lewis uses writing, photography, and digital collage to explore and understand how various ego-states develop and effect the self. She holds a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and resides in Indianapolis with her partner, daughter, and two worthless cats.