by Claire Scott
My mother thinks she’s a saint.
Her website promises spiritual guidance,
thinner thighs and a cure for infected cuticles.
She calls herself Worship Warrior,
offering prayer groups in our shabby living room
filled with plastic Jesuses and plates of Ritz Crackers.
I sit on the floor, my mitt on my lap
with its soft smell of leather and I dream about
home runs while the women drone on about redemption
And sad-eyed Jesuses stare down
from their crosses. Hours of boring prayers instead
of stealing bases, hours of hymns instead of pitching no hitters.
My first tooth fell out when I was five, I tucked
it under my pillow and the next day found a dollar
that looked like the torn dollar my mother had yesterday.
Each Christmas we left cookies and milk
for Santa, waited for hooves on the roof, until
I realized all the tags were in my mother’s handwriting.
I hear my mother guarantee everyone a seat next to God.
Dots connect. My heart crumples once more.
I grab my glove and head to the park.
Claire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.