The year I was born, summer said "Love,"
but no one had flown to the moon,
though the Russians dreamed their flag in space
redder than a tight baby face. Time began
to count me, and history placed me in the
snaky line of girls begat, begot, begotten
by fathers of fathers. In my tiny fist
a rattle was just a rattle, but the one in the mirror
was mine, too, if only in reverse. Atoms split,
hems raised, my teeth erupted crookedly.
I learned my name. What a thrill!
It pays the bills, claims my mailbox,
slides from a lover's mouth when I'm lucky.
About the Author
A native Mississippian who spent her high school years in Aberdeen, Scotland, Andrea Hewitt moved to Nashville in October 2003 with her daughter, Zea, and her son, Ronin, to work as program coordinator of the faculty senate at Vanderbilt. She holds a master's degree in English from the University of Southern Mississippi and is currently "a few classes and one dissertation away" from earning a Ph.D. in English/creative writing from USM's Center for Writers. She is also an adjunct instructor at Watkins College of Art & Design, where she teaches creativity and multicultural literature. Her poems have been published in The Mississippi Review, The Salt Fork Review, Poetry Motel and Word Riot, among others. She is at work on her first collection of poetry, tentatively titled Fool Talk.
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