My mother’s body lives wherever mine
lives. My gestures so like hers, they soothe her
violations. She’s still a child, frozen in place by rape,
and still romantic. I make sure we see
no strangers. She might become distracted
by an Elvis song and let someone like my father
take her. Her fingers stay linked with mine
even when a hopeful dawn stretches her soul
across the clouds. Love travels between us.
She leans back, admiring the trellis I’ve repaired
to help our passion vines climb
toward the light their complicated
blossoms need. She leans back, admiring the timid
dogs sucking on my hems who once
attached themselves to squeezed-shut hearts.
She leans back, admiring my wispy hair, which,
like everything of mine, is hers, but this time
with all the years it needed to turn silver.
–
Michele Sharpe, a poet and essayist, is also a high school dropout, hepatitis C survivor, adoptee, and former trial attorney. Her essays appear in venues including The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Poets & Writers. Poems are recently published or forthcoming in Sweet, Mom Egg Review, Rogue Agent, and Salamander. She lives in North Florida.