On How My Mother Sleeps

Her left hand hung

off the edge. Where we lived then

was a quiet neighborhood —

a collection of blue collars & rednecks.

I waddled towards her in all my baby fat,

looked up to tickle the five fingers suspended

in thin air. Her boysenberry nail polish had chipped.

Today, I wish I would have peeled it off

and pressed it like flowers in our King James.

Seven years later, my little sister cooed

at the crescent moon. My mother stirred.

Postpartum heavy with a belly still swollen

she placed her hands above her navel

and told me she remembered

what it felt like to be full.  

Time turned us dorsal.

I hid her behind me as she zipped up taffeta

And folded baby’s breath into homecoming curls.

Reckless with curfew and red lights, I fumbled

to my sleeping mother’s doorframe.

She forced herself fetal and facing me, whispering.

I watch my mother fold out of me

at every bend before bed, how I take

my rings off and set them on the vanity,

or let the days disappear into a nighttime routine

of unscented hand lotion and Hail Mary’s,

or fall asleep with my left hand hanging

off the edge hoping

someone will take hold of me.