Sitting at the kitchen counter
At my brother’s house in Philadelphia
I comb through the Princeton Review of Colleges
Looking for the right school for my baby.
It’s time, she’s seventeen,
time for her, like some wild fish,
to dart and rise, flash her shiny
scales of madder, neon green, and eggplant,
swim out to the margins of the bay.
Will she be an envoy to Singapore or study jazz?
Discover the electric potential of linen?
I wake her, climbing under her bedspread.
She tells me I am nuzzling her
like the dog, and I tell her the dream
I had about her aunt kneeling and praying,
then standing and finding the prayers no longer make sense.
In the dream I tell her that’s because
prayers talk to the heart,
the head isn’t meant to understand them.
Sara Epstein is a clinical psychologist from Winchester, Massachusetts, who writes poetry and songs, especially about light and dark places. She has published poems in the journals and newsletters: Literary Mama, Women Outdoors Magazine, Wild Swans, and has pieces in two anthologies: Sacred Waters, and Coming of Age.