Meghan Barrett



My mother sent me away         when she made me tender,  past budbreak she ripened me until my anemochory; my endosperm         swollenpressed around my shy cotyledons,   tucked away inside mother’s ovule     my coat


she papier-mâchéd me tremblewings from her own hardened tissues    and  brushed my plumule,          feathered worried, as the moons changed above and I grew heavy hung and      greened


My siblings and I all share a birthday      scattered in the rustling we scream past one another

out of control

our tall mothers look on, crying their children from silver-slivered wombs; they hold one another as they let us go


I feel my mother’s absence  like a phantom limb. I spin, searching. My hilum is  pitted  with  the  ghost  of  her


There are mothers around me, branches softwhisper in cool nights mourning     rockstarved children born by the same wind that wished them into being when they quivered    now buries their wombstones     unashamed


Meghan Barrett is currently a graduate student at Drexel University, working towards a Ph.D. in Biology. Meghan hails from Rochester, NY and is greatly inspired by the ecology of the upstate NY area. Her writing has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Mind Murals, and MiNT magazines and is forthcoming in The Trumpeter and Firefly magazines.

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