Mother — Port of Spain

by Beverly Jackson

From the bed, my head heavy as hibiscus, I watch her zip into a strapless gown, then sit at her dressing table. She touches Joy to her wrists. Across the veranda, the Trinidadian night is spangled like navy tulle. I breathe deeply, waiting for her perfume to make me giggle. I kick my legs, eyes shut as the tropics rain inside me. “Are you being silly?” she asks, studying her face in the mirror as she presses red lips to a tissue. I tumble to the floor, too small for this world, assaulted, undone.

Beverly A. Jackson is an artist making memories in Naples, Florida, living alongside an alligator in a backyard lake.

What is compression to you, both in general in in this piece?

Memories, to me, are compressed life. Like little marbles, they rattle around in my brain, just a few quarks, not the whole hadron. My head is full of marbles, this being one of them.


Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.

Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.

Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.


Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again March 15, 2023. Submit here.


07/08 • Meg Eden
07/15 • Tim Raymond
07/22 • Mike Itaya
07/29 • Eric Steineger
08/05 • Baylee Less-Eiseman
08/12 • Rae Gourmand
08/19 • Chiwenite Onyekwelu
08/26 • John Arthur
09/02 • TBD
09/09 • TBD
09/16 • TBD
09/23 • TBD
09/30 • TBD