by Meg Eden
On the piano, her swan body shaking
every time my father hits a chord—
When he asks why she’s still there,
Anna is moved to my mother’s bedroom closet
where my father cannot complain
about the things she chooses to keep.
I remember when all the dolls were displayed
in the living room bookshelf. Now, my mother
eliminates them one-by-one, offering them
as gifts to new mothers who politely refuse.
Anna is the only one she keeps, holding her
to the light, saying, I was a ballerina once.
MEG EDEN’s work has been published in various magazines, including Rattle, Drunken Boat, Poet Lore, and Gargoyle. She teaches at the University of Maryland. She has four poetry chapbooks, and her novel Post-High School Reality Quest is forthcoming from California Coldblood, an imprint of Rare Bird Lit. Check out her work at: www.megedenbooks.com
The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.
—Cervantes, Don Quixote
© 2016 The Indianola Review