| Sharon Shahan |
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| On Searching For Mother "Further up, my darling, the woman is calling her secrets, little houses, little tongues that tell you." -Anne Sexton I have her incestuous eyes, yet my smile is not as bold my voice, one less cigarette. She's lean as a sapling, legs a wilder forest etched in the lower branches south of her waist, a plum pit of secret. I am a summer behind her fruit blossomed out of season, a window ornament in my Sunday dress. The bed is quiet, I am starved. Her voice frightens me, Stringbean mommy, soggy thumb, a thirty-four year old girl pressed against my chest, her weight gigantic. Her hands make me nervous, the way her fingers curl, move around me, the forgotten child. I beg her to return to the mother I adore, the one with her back pressed to God's calling on winter. Her voice a mettle of words, "Goodnight moon forever, goodnight house." Goodnight Mother. |
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