June 22, 2010

Time Left Over

by Holly Day

I wear my mother’s winter coat, reflect
on the life she never had—sacrifice
the father that wasn’t ghost hand in mine
sixteen years old and so much in love so
flamboyant, faded photos on the mantle
a smile I never saw, collapsing seduction
fading into the gray woman who held me
and cried. And now I’m her, wearing
her clothes and fighting against natural
reorientation. I remember growing old
growing up in her my house, lawnmower
squealing banging in my head, echoing father’s
private mantra. It’s easy to forgive
terror him of what he did to me
us both this one—thank god
there isn’t a gun in this house.


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