Allison Goldston

Carry me.
It’s what I’ve done
But shouldn’t anymore
Because you are seven.
I place you
On my body,
Any old bone
or muscle
That remembers
How this goes.
I lean against the counter
And don’t let on
That you are hurting me.
I am guessing
This is the last time
We’ll do this.
There is nothing left
To whisper into your hair.

Allison Goldston has had poetry published in The Lindenwood Review, Chantwood Magazine, and Hamilton Stone Review. She lives in Washington with her husband and two daughters.