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We were the lighthouses
watching our wooden mothers
haul themselves across tides of liquor store receipts,
cradling anchors in their stomachs.

I watched her drink herself into a sinkage a few years ago.
Living room couches just aren’t the same
after a piece of someone has died in between the cushions.
Instead of looking for loose change,
I was always hoping to pull out
a handful of lint
& find some of her sobriety tangled in it.

We were the frail fingers
getting stuck in the mouths of glass bottles
just to put our mothers back together.

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