Make
Amanda Robins
I picture a baby carriage. Little
hands & a face in an open window.
Mom thinks God baked a loaf bread. Mixed yeast with
salt, flour, & water. Set the temp & waited.
Put the loaf in the back of a cupboard.
Some time, some dark heat, something mingled &
when he pulled it out, he loved the colors
& didn’t understand them. I garden, some
times. I don’t understand the tomatoes.
I plant them & mushrooms sprout around, all
white & skinny. Alien. I don’t Go
ogle them. I listen to the old part of
me that calls them dangerous, that doesn’t
trust dirt to give more than a painful death.
Amanda Rachel Robins works as a teacher in Missouri. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Slipstream, The Moth, Literary Mama, Gasconade Review, Crack the Spine, Atlas and Alice, and others. Her Twitter handle is @RRobins86.