Ambien Stuck in Amber
by Annalee Elmore
My childhood stuck in amber:
the floorboards of our home slicked with sap—
every time I took a step, I was nowhere.
My mother’s eyes like moonstone marbles glazed
ethereal blue as she stared past me toward a shadow-figure,
mind-whispered voices stuck in amber.
Pills shaped like sleeping eyes swirled to sewage,
only to pop up in her hand one minute later.
Every time I took a step, I was nowhere.
Body frozen in the doorway, I watched my mother
trace the butter knife over his forehead til fiery drops
pilled, blood stuck in amber.
Violent shouts bouncing against fluorescent lit walls,
I tiptoed towards them, tried to follow them down the hall.
Every time I took a step, I was nowhere.
I peered into their hands, pink with rage and stood so still
they probably didn’t know
I was there, little feet stuck in amber—
every time I took a step, I was nowhere.
back to University & College Poetry Prizes