by Cheryl Dyer

On the lonely days of my childhood,
I would play single-mother-in-a-big-city
and gather two of my best babies,
pack a tiny pink suitcase, and move us
into our one-room, windowless apartment.
There, I would sit cross-legged in the dark
atop shaggy mustard-colored carpet—
the hems of my dresses brushing
the top of my head. My laundry
basket, half-full of dirty clothes,
was a bed for one child. I’d pull
the other child’s cool plastic face
to my flat chest to nurse her.
Together, we’d sit and listen
to the clamor of the city outside
and I was confident I could
make this work for us on my own.

Cheryl Dyer is a poet, visual artist, and calligrapher residing in Omaha, Nebraska. She recently graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska in Omaha. She has received Honorable Mention for the Helen W. Kenefick Poetry Prize twice and has had work published in several literary journals.