By Anna Williams
She cupped my face in her hands and said
(The room was bare and neutral, setting the stage)
(Her hands smelled like sanitizer and airline peanuts)
I adore you–
and it meant something this time.
She cupped my face and I said nothing–
as if I was imagined, as if I did not exist.
(Ghosts can escape anything,
even a mother’s confession.)
I adore you I heard
in the bare, neutral room
–and in a rare moment, I felt
what she meant was something akin to
what I felt–
I could have said it back.
Anna Williams (she/they) is a graduate of Lewis & Clark College with a degree in Sociology/Anthropology and a minor in Creative Writing. She currently lives in Burlington, Vermont.