By Esther Sadoff
but I am not so sure. I don't see the similarities
between their thumbs and forefinger, the creases in their palms,
though my sister and I both have wrinkled hands.
I don't hear the echoes in our bodies. I was told I was from
another planet, so I felt the distance of satellites, of stars.
Walking down the street with the dogs, my mother and sister
have the same hair, and if they are blurred by distance,
they look even more alike. Though maybe I have a shadow
of my father's sister in me, and sometimes my intonation
is like my father's mother, who occasionally said curse words
in a tone as bright as morning. But maybe that's where it ends.
I am learning to see things in maps, to read the shapes on the map
like landmarks—my father's Bible on the bedside table,
the stack of magazines he wants me to read;
my mother's bedside table, the iPad with the game of solitaire,
the stack of books in large font; or my sister's closet with the old posters
from 25 years ago we always threaten to throw away.
Maybe we can follow the lines, the pathways to the kitchen,
where my father tugs the blinds shut and my mother,
frustrated, opens them again, saying he lacks vitamin D;
the dogs patiently wait for more food; each item
on a map like pieces on a chessboard, a checkerboard.
Pathways numerous as the creases of our upturned palms,
wrinkles shaped like diamonds, lines like rays of light.
My lifeline, like an arrow, pointing up and away.
A distant song we echo back and forth.
I can hear the song though I don't know the words.
About the Author:
Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. She is the author of four chapbooks: Some Wild Woman (Finishing Line Press), Serendipity in France (Finishing Line Press), Dear Silence (Kelsay Books), and If I Hold my Breath (Bottlecap Press). She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Hole in the Head Review, and she is the winner of the Women of Ohio 2025 Poetry Award.