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YOUR CART

dara-lyn shrager

Faint

My mother’s handbag strap catches 
a door handle, slams her facedown 
on cold concrete. All these years 
watching her progress from house 
to car in case of days like these. 
Her coat sleeves make life dangerous. 
It’s not this season that takes her so far 
from feeling, but all the bitter seasons. 
Into the phone, I repeat words twice, 
three times, until she grunts. 
She understands or just wants me 
to stop. How her eyes water but her
lips are dry and white. Her ribs shake.
I want to swaddle her the way 
she swaddled me in the sunny kitchen, 
Cream of Rice bubbling over low flame. 
She cooked with milk instead of water 
because she wanted me to taste 
what’s sweet. Nobody can get half 
the warmth they need.
November / December 2022

Barbara Daniels
Dara-Lyn Shrager lives in Princeton, New Jersey, and is the co-founder and editor of Radar Poetry. Her full-length collection, Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, was published by Barrow Street Books in 2018. She holds an MFA from Bennington College and a BA from Smith College. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in many journals, including Crab Creek Review, Southern Humanities Review, Barn Owl Review, and Nashville Review. Her articles have appeared in newspapers and magazines including The New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and Philadelphia Magazine.
Art: Museum. Oil on canvas. T. Aguilera. 
  
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