Moving Homes

by Gae Rusk



Maybe I can still change my mind. Maybe I wonít have to go if I show how my knees are suddenly bending backwards, how my neck noodles to the west, looking for a softer pillow than the continental shelf.

Maybe I wonít actually have to leave to be seen there. Maybe the daughter wonít notice Iíve substituted myself for me there instead of here.

Maybe I can take both sides of this disruption and braid them into my hair, anchoring them to my neck so all the meís are stronger together than separate.

If nothing else, I could wear myself as a disguise, then hide in the barn and pretend to leave and fool us all.




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