by Laura Heitman
My mother was birthed from Arizona;
eroded from emerald rivers and
The sparse water of its deserts are
reflected back into
From cracked palms to her open hands,
I am her just as she
She is kept alive by memories of
limestone and nameless things.
She feeds me smokey fires and
thunder from her tongue when she is
tired but restless.
She is my lifeline.
The moment I eventually learn to be still and
breathe easy is when her topography overlaps with
When she empties her lungs of music,
I press my body close to hers and
make up my own melody
She fills terracotta bowls with flour and rhythms unheard
when the honey of near evening softens
This is when desert scrub mingles with the
warmth in her voice.
This is when I love her
Author Biography: Laura Heitman is a seventeen year old senior at the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts. She majors in Creative Writing/Media Arts and lives resides in Hebron, Connecticut. She spends the majority of her time writing, painting, consuming large amounts of coffee while formulating college essays, snowboarding, and falling in love.