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A weekly poem, read by the author.
Sept. 21 2010 7:03 AM


Click the arrow on the audio player to hear Paula Bohince read this poem. You can also download the recording or subscribe to Slate's Poetry Podcast on iTunes.

Though I sloshed inside the machine
of her body, as our whites swam in a soft boil,
were wrung, hung,
then flew,

or tried to,
into the pain and ultimate
forgiveness of pines. …


I was so young, I thought
we were magical.

The Y branch hoisting the heaving line,
spiders who'd snooze
in undershirts. Shook awake,
would climb air.

My mother
who was there
in every crevice.

Now I want to be nothing
but a spool of thread against her cold feet
as she watches her programs
and console her.