Hannah’s humanity rests in the same dramatics
my sleep leaves me in so often she can mime it-
a flat on my back affair: one arm flung outward
like my cousin’s wasted fiancé waving goodbye over
her shoulder- and we laugh until red-faced each time
and at every new song Hannah learns to sing off key
(we’ve lived with too many soloists to want to hear an actual note.)
But I’ve seen her swing through the living room, dancing with
feet planted on the couch and flailing arms (threatening to take out
the basil I’ve been nursing on the windowsill), and then, most
of all, I believe in the recklessness of prayer, and in the way
she worries her hair between her first three fingers, looping
her concentration into place, an order that comes in bursts.
Everything has a list. But the lists have found homes under
the kitchen chairs or stuck to the fridge by broken magnets,
and Hannah loses her cell phone, her wallet, and her car keys
at least twice a month, but karma must revel in her like I do
to always return them intact this way: a careful mother she expects,
tidying behind her and saving the scraps.

[Spring, 2015]

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