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.
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.