When momma cooked supper I washed
the dishes, while my sister dried, caressing
them like a crystal ball, and we saw
our unmapped futures.
Babies are made this way, we clench
our teeth hold our breath hope for more, sometimes
less. We got what we prayed for, more
than we expected.
Momma can’t wash the dishes anymore.
We wring our hands, howl at windmills, feel
the earth fall upon our skin; it clings like
molasses until we are face down.
I try to help.
My words are sucked
away, my breaths are shallow. A
mountain has formed in the curve of
my spine. My chest is gravel. Scatter
me on fields of
cotton, clothe the world.
Kim D. Bailey has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for nonfiction and Best of the Net for poetry. She resides in Florida where she enjoys baking for her neighbors, swimming, bicycling at the beach, playing guitar, visiting her Mom, and spending time with her mini dachshunds, Peanut and Buttercup, and cats Cleo and Buddha. You can follow her author page at: facebook.com/share/1DzWESnD2g.
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Heavy Feather Review 