MY MOTHER by KATHLEEN RADIGAN

Met my father
in summer
at some wedding.
She won’t say if they kissed
or felt clairvoyant twinges
during Vows.

“That’s private.”
cracks pistachios,
flings shells out
the car window.

I bet her hair hung
shampooed
in the pew,
cheeks sunburnt.
Talked like a rocket take-off.
kept clean fingernails,
knew her grandmother’s
friends by name.

She’s like tarot
now, all predictions.
Hides old selves
under starched shirts.
Radiologists call
from a bright
ceilinged world
where death
and life are plights
alike in dignity.
Can it be true?
each day is dead so soon.

—–

Kathleen Radigan is a twenty-one year old undergraduate English major at Wesleyan in Connecticut.  She is an anxious person. Her work has been previously published in The Adroit Journal, Atrocity Exhibition, The Harpoon Review, and several others.

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Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, poetry, and creative nonfiction from marginalized creators.

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