POETRY
HANGING Caitlin McBride
Remember that flower basket we put up each spring, hanging up delicately only by a thin hook and string off the corner of the front porch? You stood so tall above me, effortlessly reaching up and bringing down the little bird’s nest to my eye level. I saw that they couldn’t open their eyes those ugly, featherless babies, just hatched, their mouths shutting and un-shutting in rhythm, blindly begging for food. They were mistaking us for their own Mama So I probably got defensive, because you are my Mama and not theirs. You hung them back up and we went inside. Maybe you made me a ketchup sandwich and I un-shut and shut my mouth, devouring the preferred cuisine of my childhood. I haven’t had a ketchup sandwich in forever, because they are disgusting. And because only you know the recipe.
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