At the kitchen table, maybe in the afternoon
I tell my mother
I am pregnant
and she says
oh, isn’t that wonderful
and smiles
then says
there is much to be done
and I imagine
all we’ll do together
in preparation
for this first child
we are all
thrilled to welcome
except the chair
where my mother sits
in this dream
and the wrap dress
she is wearing
are not
recognizable.
The table
between us,
wider than
the decades since her death.
She glances
my way momentarily
as if I am vaguely familiar.
J. A. Lagana is a writer, poet, and editor from Pennsylvania. Her work appears in the Atlanta Review, Naugatuck River Review, the Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.