It was March when I first knew of you, March also
when I first felt your life was a lie.
You were an ode to all things off-kilter, not quite right,
and every mother became a reminder
of that task to untell what was told,
undo what I was working up to.
If you were a dream, I’ve been waking up from you
for seven years, relishing that last bit of sleep
when I believed you were true.
If you were a song, you’d be some half-remembered string of chords,
a fragment of a melody I can’t quite play.
If you were a star, you’d be the one shining from farthest away;
I wouldn’t be quite sure you were there,
but I’d wish on you
and for you
Sara Smith Andress lives in the Florida panhandle with her husband, two daughters, and fifteen chickens. She teaches composition and literature to community college students.
Would you like to join the discussion? Feel free to contribute!
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *