Dialing Home

after Noor Unnahar

My mother, out of habit, asks if I’m well. Out of desperation, I say, Life’s never tasted so sweet. Everything is possible when you’re lying. The fruit trees are flowering, untouched by last winter’s frost. Last week, I plucked six grapefruit the size of my thumb to let the biggest three grow. I think they’ll survive the fall, swell big enough for a breakfast I’ll choke down before dawn. Everything is possible when you lie. My poems flow easy, my thighs thicken gracefully, I unearth energy to cook dinner after work. I fling my heart’s chambers wide, doormats soft yet worn, welcoming kindred souls instead of clamming tight and scared. Everything is possible when you’re lying. In my dreams, sunset bleeds my curtains pink as she tucks me under a frayed gingham quilt. Room enough for two in a twin I outgrew, she curls beside me, freckled hands smoothing hair, protection and pride dulling her tongue until all it can hum are dusty lullabies unboxed from beneath the bed. I fall asleep fast. Her hands ward away the bad dreams. Everything is possible when you’re lying.