Mommie Sunshine

by Mish (Eileen) Murphy


Your mom—
how like a dandelion was her hair.

Died of pneumonia last month.

She lived in Vegas with your sister,
the one who hears voices.

She made sure your sister
took her medicine.

Your mother sent me gifts, for example,
a mohair sweater I couldn’t wear in Florida.

And when she phoned, she always insisted on
chit-chatting with me first,

although you were her “golden boy.”
And now you say she was too clingy

and she suffocated you
and you don’t think about her
and you don’t miss her. But beware:

your memories about her will
rise to the surface
eventually

like all buried things.


* * * * *

Mish (Eileen) Murphy is Contributing Editor and emeritus Assistant Poetry Editor for CulturalDaily.com. She teaches English/literature at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. She graduated from New College, Sarasota, and Columbia College of Chicago.  A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections—Fortune Written on Wet Grass (2019) and Sex & Ketchup (2021)—and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me (2020).