Sometimes Sara feels like an orphan,
imagines herself raised by Nuns.
Her dead mother never did like
Sara's red floppy hats, long hair,
calf-length skirts stitched with roses.
She wanted Sara's hair permed,
nails colored a proper pale pink.
Her older relatives used to say
Sara needed to find God, that she
surely would go straight to hell one day.
Sara figures God knows exactly
where he is and doesn't
need Sara to find him.
Sometimes, though, she wishes
she still belonged somewhere. She wishes
she could see her mother again,
sit at their old kitchen table, feet
dangling, munching on fried chicken
and crowder peas. She misses
the family stories, her father
in the upstairs bath, shaving,
and the lighting bugs morse-coding
each other through darkening pines out back.
Published: Empowerment4Women 2010
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