Unmother Me

By Mary McGinnis

If you must come back from the dead,

bring calamine lotion, a strong soap

for treating crabs,

and gasoline for republicans.

Don't bring judgment, a carpet sweeper or kelp.

Don't bring vitamins.

If you must come back, bake me a whacky cake,

bring me my high school yearbook charred in a fire.

Now you can admit you used to shed tears

for that unformed girl you saw in my picture.

For many years I thought you wanted to suck

the life out of me,

so I escaped by way of West Philly

and a man with an Eastern European accent.

Unmother me, woman to woman,

tell me one secret, how you escaped Pittsburgh,

and life in your father’s well-run tavern.