Its sifting and idk how to sift her left hand hung off the edge. where we lived then was a quiet neighborhood — a collection of blue collars & rednecks. [5] i waddled towards her in all my baby fat, looked up to tickle the five fingers suspended in thin air. her boysenberry nail polish had chipped. today, i wish i would have peeled it off and pressed it like flowers in our king james. [10] seven years later, my little sister cooed at the crescent moon. my mother stirred. postpartum heavy with a belly still swollen she placed her hands above her navel and told me she remembered [15] what it felt like to be full. time turned us dorsal. i hid her behind me as she zipped up taffeta and folded baby’s breath into homecoming curls. reckless with curfew and red lights, i fumbled [20] to my sleeping mother’s doorframe. she forced herself fetal and facing me, whispering. i watch my mother fold out of me at every bend before bed, how i take my rings off and set them on the vanity, [25] or let the days disappear into a nighttime routine of unscented hand lotion and hail mary’s, or fall asleep with my left hand hanging off the edge hoping someone will take hold of me "on how my mother sleeps" a. who is the speaker of the poem? b. what relationship is the speaker focused on in in the poem? c. how does the speaker seem to feel about this relationship?