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The International Mothers Network
The Council of Literary Magazines and Presses
There is no sun except her,
and she shines awkwardly, tag still
on her sunglasses, specks of supper
clinging to her cheek.
Today you’re young, and
your face reflects mine
like a lying mirror.
I place the phone on the bed,
press “speaker” and open
the first drawer of the dresser.
These are the dregs of her life…
The kids are out of the ribcage, string-
broken. At school, perhaps. Taking
a walk. They may be safe.
Has memorized a poem
From a greeting card.
She recites it
From the back seat of the car…
The girl who lives in the keyhole
crept from the spine of a storybook
into that impossible aperture.