by Amy Love
You had a name, the one she gave you, for a while.
The birds did, too: cardinal, goldfinch, Carolina wren.
There was a yesterday before today. There would be sleep, and then tomorrow.
You brought her People magazines and brought the birds sunflower seeds.
And then your name was sometimes yours, sometimes your sister’s,
Either would do, but not the boys. You brought her a baby doll
she sometimes took for real. They rocked mid-night.
You filled the feeder. Red bird, yellow bird, little brown bird.
The birds have become flying things and your mother has mistaken
her closet for a toilet, but she allows you to peel down her sodden pajamas
and sponge her twig legs clean. You were someone she knew; she knew that much.
She asks if you’re her daughter. Who else would you be?
Amy Love is a librarian and web developer in the Lost Provinces of North Carolina, and she shares great writing from small publications at A Quiet Root (aquietroot.com). She lives high on a mountain with her young daughter, one cat, and unreasonable numbers of books and bicycles.
Emerge Literary Journal 