most holy Mother
give me mine
in her thirties,
leaned across the kitchen table
hands over mine
guiding needles through each loop
unknotting my mistakes.
and from the kitchen, i hear her now:
she just spat my girlfriend’s name
and slammed her bedroom door.
I can barely recall the pattern
or color of the scarf.
still her steel needles pierce
return to me, Mother of then
and now, the first Woman to want me,
each callus caressing my hands.
Amy Lauren is a graduate student in Mississippi. Among other publications, her poetry appears in Wherewithal Lit, Vagabond City, and GERM Magazine.