Annette Sisson

Late

My mother presses the vein
on the top of her hand, asks

if I regret the abortion.
Her voice hovers, eyes

fixed on the kitchen window.
I stir the soup again,

replace the stainless lid,
gnaw the membrane inside my lip.

Many years ago
I heard her breath clutch—

silence on the phone line
as she pictured me splayed

on a bare table, the trickle
of blood. For thirty years

she hadn’t asked. Nursed
this ghost, banded it in certainty.

Mom, I was never pregnant.
My period finally came.

She releases the fusty air
from her chest, lays down

the wraith of raw belief
she’s carried like a blade.

Annette Sisson’s poems are published in many journals, most recently Valparaiso PR, Birmingham PR, Third Wednesday, and Glassworks. Her first book Small Fish in High Branches was published by Glass Lyre (5/22). Recently her poems have received five nominations for Best of the Net and two for The Pushcart Prize.