When I stretch out on kitchen chairs
my godmother snaps at me to sit like a lady
so, pulling my legs to my chest, I peer
over my knees to where she sighs,
yanking five-hundred-thread purple-checked
Egyptian cotton, cartoon-faced beach towels
and pillowing dresses from our dryer.
Sweating as she folds, hands sparking static,
she hurriedly twists edges, veiling corners
to match corners. Same symmetry of silverware
clanking as her surgical precision extracts
orphans from cupboards, finding their twins
ripe for her shining cloth. As elders arrive
they hang coats, scarves Godmother tasks me
with whisking to our foyer closet. I shove
all ninety pounds of me into antique wood
while a stepsister arranges scarves
on metal hooks, remarking how it seems
no one lives at our house.
By Amy Lauren
A graduate of Mississippi College, Amy Lauren authored Prodigal (Bottlecap Press, 2017) and God With Us (Headmistress Press, 2017). Her poetry appears in The Gay & Lesbian Review, Cordite Poetry Review, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere.