BECOMING THERESA

By Anna Vaughn

Dad started to call me by my mother’s name
when I’m stubborn  when I mimic his tone
ask him what’s for dinner   or tell him he has a load in the wash.

I dig holes in the garden & plant pansies
the way she used to on all fours.

I crunch plastic cups to pop out squared soil
with gloved hands & caress their little bodies,

their roots stem through the wet dirt as I draw a circle of mulch chunks, & dig
a shallow hole then cover it    snug as a bug she says
that little hill that sprouts a screaming purple pansy.

From her wheelchair she watches me wipe my hands on my jeans
my father calls her name    we both turn to look.

Anna Vaughn is an MFA candidate in poetry at Bowling Green State University. She holds an MA in Literature and Writing from Kent State University.

Instagram: @a.n.n.i.e.v