Andrea Janelle Dickens


Our mothers recognized
loss—lost, dusty cocoons—
knew their primary fear
was emptiness. From green
mountains they homed
each future child, each
possibility, across the desert
across mountains rising orange
in morning sun, purple
as evening crept among
their boulders. Mothers like
butterflies searching for
milkweed to lay their eggs.
Our mothers with bodies
made of nectar. How many
survived that trek, how many
grew leaner off strange land?

Andrea Janelle Dickens lives in the Sonoran Desert where she handles snakes for desert flashlight tours, makes pottery, and teaches. Her work has recently been published in White Stag, New South, and Of Zoos, among other places

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