let the wishbone dry out first
wishbone, wishbone,
I’ve longed to find the home where
my mother once slept.
In the rotted drawers I pull out
bottles of oregano and thyme, lathered in the
stick of elderberry syrup. she
always believed in its healing touch.
what remains of the smallest wishbone
when my brother and I pull--
when my brother and I run further
than even our father would go.
I feel no sorrow yet, no longing
pockmarked with affections found beneath
the wilting lilac trees.
Her and I remain:
my mother and I cry the same.
wishbones hidden among our tongues
and tombs beneath our lungs.
I’ve longed to find the home where
my mother once slept.
In the rotted drawers I pull out
bottles of oregano and thyme, lathered in the
stick of elderberry syrup. she
always believed in its healing touch.
what remains of the smallest wishbone
when my brother and I pull--
when my brother and I run further
than even our father would go.
I feel no sorrow yet, no longing
pockmarked with affections found beneath
the wilting lilac trees.
Her and I remain:
my mother and I cry the same.
wishbones hidden among our tongues
and tombs beneath our lungs.
Lindsey McGowan is a recent graduate of The College of Saint Rose in Albany, NY, and will begin her graduate English studies at the University of New Hampshire in the fall. She is currently an associate editor at Pine Hills Review. Find her on Twitter at @lindseyxdaisy.
