Saturday, December 5, 2009


the real one, hardly
bothered with,
being a girl and then
five days later, the
one we grew up
believing, like other
lies, wasn’t true.
The first year I wrote
post cards to her
in my head. She
filled poems with
her absence. When
I was in a strange city,
I still waited for her
call. Tapes I made
of her huddle on my
desk, I still can’t
play them. I never
thought anyone
I saw on the street
was her tho winter-
green and Joy
perfume haunt. Tho
I’ve heard the
dying have a smell,
but her breath her
skin was always
sweet. When I
open her pocket
book still in the
closet for years,
the scent of that
sweetness is
still, my mother

by Lyn Lifshin

*Lyn's website:

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