End of August, Poetry, Anna Aning

End of August

Your mother still sends me the vegetables from her garden She feeds me like my mother did, like she fed you The same hands that brushed your hair and buttoned your shirts tends to the tomatoes I put in my pasta sauce That’s all I think of now, how far you are, how incredibly close I try to live for the day, but it’s hard As soon as today starts, it feels like tomorrow And next month and next year when I’ll finally be there There which has no shape except one where I will fit without squeezing myself in But sometimes, too much, I want to be in the yesterday where you’re proud of me, you love me, and you’ll see me tomorrow

Amma Aning