A Mother’s Moving Day

She has been up since
three with the baby of
a low heart beat She has
been awake since six to
pack the car full of last
minute escentuals and cozy
memories She been moving
since nine with a little girl, a
toddling boy and a box of
spilt cereal

She has been at the
wheel since eleven after
two diapers changes, a
bathroom trip and a few
tears

Now with a backseat
full of her heart -sleepy,
hangery, and fidgety-
she can breath.


​​​

East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​



​Christine Nicholson

Jane Doe


My car would look beautiful
wrapped around a pole in a
familial embrace with my body
inside.


My mind barks my death as
I drive home from work, when
willing to share they don’t see what
I mean- my mind’s auditorium of
sugarless details.


I see the dark empty road.
the red lights of my car mirrored
in the crimson that drips in a dip down
my fracters to pool in my lap.


The first cars to pass doesn’t see
what happened, no one, not until
I’m in someone's way.


I see the blue light of a cell screen flash
in my window.


I feel the soundless scream.


I hear the dial tone of the nine one one.


Time beats along as sirens get loudingly
closer , with sharp lights and then the screeching
church of the door being ripped away, a pulse is
Hoped for.


As three sets of arms remove my cracking
form, a uniform searches the rubble I left for
my name.


Phone, cracked and dented,
It doesn’t turn on.