The Next Line

I love hearing you read.
I never know the answers
before you say them.

Something about silence
in a poem
and I’m home.

My mother pulls her robe
closer to her body.
She is smaller than I am.

I tell myself not to think
about headlights when falling

The wind pushes through,
even here. I am not a mother,
should not know how to coax like I do.

They watch from windows,
my waking
if it’s too late.

God does not.

Things pile up.
It happens so fast
and I’m home.

Going back through
the books I left half-full
but did you read them?

Satiated is a hard word
to sound out. My mouth
contorts to make it.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to The Next Line

  1. Joan Miranda says:

    I’m glad you have a good relationship with your mother, I wish I do too, but that’s an impossibility

  2. Ok, you’re inspiring me to pick the pen back up. This is a poet’s poem — the cadence, the well placed breaks, the last strophe forcing the reader to take on the narrator (my mouth contorts as well).

    I need to write when I get home. Kudos.

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