We said ‘coming home’ without fealty to space or
love, hearts hidden in our shoes left muddy by the
door. Ma gathered us together at the table, sweet
flowers swept into her arms by a river tide at dusk.
Our fingers laced together as we gave thanks for
our blessings; she had to stretch over an empty
chair to reach us. These were the unhurried
evenings when she could relish in an instance of
being held, her hand a petal on my brother’s
lilypad palm. To think we were once buds, floating
in her milk belly now rumpled by scars. The more
we learned how to conceive ourselves, her touch
seemed to peel from our stained skin. Summer, the
season of unfolding, was upon us. This was all we
could do to keep from letting go, a ripple of prayer
bidding the spirit to remain in the distance
blossoming between us.
CAMILLE ROSAS is a member of the student organizations UP Writers Club and UP Esoterica, and the creative collective SARI. Her interests include alternative literary production, mysticism, and, for someone exceptionally bad at using basic technology, science fiction.