Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Long Ago, Home

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Childhood, that sleepy season, hovered at the ceiling.
It fell like a silk net and we wore its colors,
wrestled soundlessly in the soft, rotting cave
where we hid from you,
handed death back and forth like a flashlight.
You were beautiful and perfect as the pills
you caught us stealing--
we gulped the air in your bureau,
left fingerprints on lemon-scented wood.
You watched us from the ironing board,
steam hissing and cool starch,
a sprinkler system arcing over thirsty lawns.


Lynn McGee’s poems appear in current or forthcoming issues of The American Poetry Review, The Hawai’i Review, Big City Lit, The Same, Tilt-a-Whirl, Bluestem, and 2 Bridges Review. She lives in Long Island, New York.


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I love the unsentimental true-ness of this poem and the very physical fabric of mother-child relations. Beautiful!
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