Never a Moonlit Lie

In the a.m. of my p.m., I stay
a sweet bay magnolia blossom,

like a tilt-a-whirl in the cup
of my hand, its spoon petals

deep enough to scoop last night’s takeout—
wonton soup, now garbage to go.

Memorial Day never passed
without my mother’s repeating

her hand-me-down design
of waxy ornamentals thrust

into tarnished trophy cups
and nicked Revere bowls

staggered on the mantel,
an altar of lemony intoxication

until veins crackled across
leaves curling golden brown

and yellowing blooms dimpled,
like my grandmother’s thighs,

and now mine; the skin tells
the sun’s truth—never a moonlit lie.

Catherine Hamrick is a copywriter in the greater Atlanta area. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, storySouth, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel: Appalachian Witness, The Ekphrastic Review, Sparks of Calliope, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. Find her online at

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