by Amanda Russell

For most of my life, I barely recognized her.
The body stretched and split and stitched like
some corporeal applique sewn around my role-play.

I grew up squirming inside her, was taught
my Self was some hidden else. Spent years
ditching Sunday sermons for the woods, the creek,
the time to unsheathe my claws and climb into my doubt.

In another lifetime, I choked down the last bite
of bread with gulps of goat’s milk— sat in a monastery cafeteria
consuming each word peeled from page and placed
upon sound waves. Found the wisdom of so many saints

less convincing than the letter he penned me— Never mind what I said
about us— without grounds or vows, I booked the flight home.
Spent over a decade stirring the limiting reagent of faith.
I was washing my hands the last time I prayed.

Somehow, it happened. She had become a part of Me—
a home I filled to the fingerprints.

I was washing my fingers. Each digit. Free
to pull back my auburn drapes and see
chipmunks over-fill their cheeks with birdseed
or the sill that needs a good dusting.

Neighbors often witness me rolling up sleeves, sweeping out
unlived lives and relics of fetus dreams stuck in utero. Closet
congregations of old selves sing requiem as I room-to-room….

In this room, Mom is my dominant feature, the exaggerated hand
grasping the multifaceted jewel of my heart,

but in the west room, Someone wakes.
I know that was her
flash of light catching in my mirrored hall.

Amanda Russell is an editor at The Comstock Review and a stay-at-home mom. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Walt’s Corner, EcoTheo Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and the anthology mightier: poets for social justice. To learn more about her or her chapbook, Barren Years, please visit poetrussell.wordpress.com. You can find her on Instagram @poet_russell.