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You mean my mother  
who drove north from Tampa  
on U.S. 41 in a faded red  
Ford from 1974 and didn’t stop  
until she’d reached the tip  
of the Keweenaw Peninsula.  
You mean the mother who emailed  
my work address, which she found  
online, to say she’d been sober  
for a year and learned to respect  
other people’s boundaries.  
You mean the mother who sent  
a photo of my niece I never ask about 
because I never knew she existed 
because I’ve never met my brother  
and why don’t I care about my family

Somewhere there is a salmon  
who is tired of swimming upstream,  
who chooses to stay at sea, where  
she flourishes, rather than return  
to the river of her birth, where  
the work of digging redds awaits,  
where there will be fighting  
and graveled flesh, where  
she will die once she’s laid her eggs. 

 


Marissa Glover currently lives and writes in Florida, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s poetry has most recently appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Louisiana Literature, River Mouth Review, and Middle House Review. Her poetry collection, Let Go of the Hands You Hold, will be published by Mercer University Press in 2021. You can follow Marissa on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.

© 2020, Marissa Glover

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