Root

my dreams are ragged and full of spice, i cough in my sleep, hungry for something more—my dreams are broken and the night is too warm, too many heavy bodies in my bed—broken sleep punctuated by cries

the spring is here—thawing—my son picks blue flowers at the playground and puts them in his pocket to plant in our backyard, he offers them to me when we get home, sweat crumpled, a green ball on the palm of his chubby hand, mommy, put in my ground? here, the root.

a glass of dry riesling, my husband says, from oregon. let’s drink a glass when you get home and untangle the knots of our lives. let’s decide. let’s move.

i’m willing to move, to go—cool rainy summers, mountains, something beckons from the west coast—

but there are roots in richmond, sheamus means james, the james river.

momma look momma look look look a plane, where i going, what i doing, i want i want, i like you momma, i want to break you, momma, and you can never come back ever, ever again.

what is there left to say, there is so much left unsaid. a tangled mess—i sewed sheamus a rabbit today—so many black knots and the stuffing was coming out and he threw it down as soon as i gave it to him, but to see something come from my hand, to see something that wasn't there before, become—

 

Cat Ennis Sears is a birth doula and former high school English teacher. Her fiction has appeared in the Chicago Quarterly Review, Necessary Fiction, Fringe, Printer's Devil Review and others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and an AWP Intro Journal Award.