There is a certain kind of forgiveness between mothers and daughters that fathers cannot understand. A certain kind of blue glass shard. A bitter nettle tea. Honey withheld. The sour turn of a morning glance. Over a chipped cup. Dark roast. Four sisters one room. Two sisters one bed. Some dreamy grasping, a push into the closet door at midnight. The hidden whiskey. A shared secret. Luke warm water, copper healing, burnt throats and an old story told only between them. A boat, a shotgun. Unquiet houses of the mid-century middle classes. Radios turned to baseball and winter weather warnings. Language of regret, sarcastic and muttered over the din of a moaning refrigerator a whistling teakettle, a crying baby, a swearing father, a sighing mother. The latter the loudest. All this and still I want to be exactly like her, as beautiful, as fragile, as soft and round and powerful.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.
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