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.

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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.