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MER – Mom Egg Review
You are at:Home » Megan Gannon – Poetry

Megan Gannon – Poetry

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By Mom Egg Review on December 14, 2022 Poetry

Megan Gannon

Dispatch from Another Familiar Fairy Tale

 

We did not abandon them there, though it was my idea:
the two of them alone together in the wilderness

of a Midwest shopping mall at Christmas, not holding
hands but bound by their word and the rareness

of the occasion to stick together. In the event
of an emergency they have her cell-phone,

his maleness, their long-limbed, always-competitive
swiftness to get them to safety. Each of them

with a few folded bills—the crumbs we have left
to give them—in their pockets to buy gifts with.

They wander the well-marked paths of plate glass,
weaving between the carts of over-priced sweatshirts

and magical skin creams, scented squishies
and cat calendars trying to prepare us all for what’s coming.

Light glitters in every window, warring music wafts
from every escape route, and if an evil shows up to spew

its black spit at them, I’ve told them both to run and not
look back—leave each other behind if they have to—loyalty

and bravery and cunning and all those fairy tale virtues
saving no one in this age of senseless storylines.

 

 

Dispatch from a Memory of Mint

 

Into the damp white light of those Mother’s Day Sundays
my sister and I would rise, steal through the property-line

pines, and tear thin tongues of nose-tingling green
from the neighbor’s garden. I imagine our two rounded

backs, curled like witches tending their brew,
our nightgowns damp at the hem from being dragged

through dew. I held my hands open for the offering
as my sister plucked piles of the fleshed, fluffy feathers

I’d cup to my chest. Back in the still-sleeping house,
we’d scoot curdled eggs around a hot pan, scrape

butter across toast, pour water that could burn us
to brew the tea our mother mixed with two pink packets

of fake sugar, our garnish mint rimmed around the waiting plate
like miscolored rays of a make-believe sun. How did we learn

such nurturing, in the absence of an inverse? My sister showed me
where the plant grew and how to take it, how to hold each

tiny blade gently, the serrations so small you could touch them
again and again without feeling cut.

 

Back to Mother Folk

Megan Gannon is the author of Cumberland, a novel, and White Nightgown, a collection of poetry. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry and Ploughshares and most recently in Atlanta Review, Boulevard, and Alaska Quarterly Review (forthcoming). She is an Associate Professor of English at Ripon College.

 

 

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