by Patricia Callan
like I was born
in boiling oil,
my mother
a window–
painted shut,
my whisper
a yawn set
to music; you
hear me lazy.
Your hinged
jaw rusts open.
A girl–a pinched
balloon, her
mother the shine
on a gas station
windshield–makes
you the upright
hairs on my
dog’s back.
A hurricane in
the folds of
her harp strings,
my daughter is
the wind is a
tentacled willow,
her breath
like fingers.
Patricia Callan is a writer and an artist living in Beverly, Massachusetts with her husband, two young daughters, and their numerous imaginary friends. She has an MA in English from Salem State University. Her work can be found at patriciacallan.com, Drunk Monkeys, Dreampop Press, and in the upcoming January 2019 issue of Unstamatic.
Hawaii Pacific Review 