She finds me sprawled
face-down on a chaise lounge—
head in the shade, legs in
the sun. I peer between
white vinyl slats at
a tiny black ant.
You could be doing
something useful, she says, my
mother whose mouth holds
rivers that swim with
consonants and vowels—
so many ways of saying,
You’re not the daughter I wanted.
How to explain—
what’s sacred resides in
the sensation of warmth on
the backs of my legs, that and
the way the ant carries what looks
like a crumb in its jaws, although
I can tell it’s really a city of stillness.
Also, the fact that no one but
I witness it crossing the patio tiles,
bound for a place it belongs.
Early spring, I slip through
a gap in the privet hedge.
The neighbor’s apple tree quivers
with white frills of silk, unfurling
leaves that spin in wind. My mother
won’t hold me in her gaze the way
I stand here gaping at this
ancient tree. Won’t rock me
like I’m cradled in rain-
soaked winter limbs, sheltered
in July—when the thinnest
membrane lies between bark
and my sun-dark skin. In fall, that
profusion of small, hard fruit. Tart,
with only a faint trace of sweetness.
I eat and eat this proof of love.
Laura Ann Reed’s work has been anthologized in How To Love the World, and is forthcoming in the SMEOP anthology: HOT, as well as having appeared in Loch Raven, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Swimm, The Ekphrastic Review, and Willawaw, among other journals. Laura holds a dual undergraduate degree in French/Comp Lit from UC Berkeley, and completed Master’s Degree programs in the Performing Arts, Clinical Psychology, and Organizational Development prior to working as Leadership Development Trainer at the San Francisco headquarters of the United States Environmental Protection Agency, prior to the Trump Administration. She and her husband now reside in western Washington.