My friend says “you don’t have to hold it all” & I think
about the things to drop / how she doesn’t understand the difference
between wanting/having to / the way her eyes are always
effortlessly lined / wore makeup during labor.
It remained after all the things that left
her body, including a child.

My hands stay inside most days / on the keyboard / would fly
if I let them out. 13 / my mother’s house / clasped under my head
cloud-gazing the chipped ceiling paint. So full of tears & the promises of boys
I dropped through the floor with the weight. The times my hands
touched someone else before myself / salty with want &
desire before knowledge. When did I forget
that my hands belong to me?

My hands on the pull up bar / hang for 2 minutes says
a YouTube video / it defies aging. My spine will uncrumple
& neck will no longer hold other people’s problems. Worth a try.
Anything that could help move time backwards seems attractive.
My hands give out / small red bumps on the lifeline / the time
I was kept back from horse camp with chicken pox / pink spots
of calamine covering the red / mother smoothing
the fever from my head / 7-up & custard in small glass tureens / sweet
milk / sugared rims.

I wish I had said to my mother, you don’t have to hold it all / you can
hold yourself first. Her caring for others left a hole inside her
the shape of a cloud & I was always looking towards it / wishing
I could make it resemble a life. My mother showed me that
putting others first was the right thing.
That if I wanted to be liked I would be nice.

When someone gave me something
that I didn’t want I stored it inside myself.

My friend says, “you don’t have to hold it all” / I’m not sure what to let go
of others that have made themselves me.

~

Bio: Anna Crandall (she/her) is a writer and educator. She has previously taught in Oregon’s Department of Corrections and is currently a high school Language Arts teacher. You can find recent work in MER Literary, Shot Glass Journal, MiniMAG and on Instagram @teacupsandghosts.