Even, Echoes Poem by James McLain

Superior white mother and stockings nylon black.
Was I remembered, seven nearly eight years old,
they never looking, out past the window instead.

Tight corsets made of bone, yellow ringlets, bright light coming through the sun, shaking, eye of the needle like she of old lore spinning it off, golden thread.

He looked on her desk, her little green apple, she spoke to him of featherless birds and worms.

Because of me, she did look through the glass.
To young to be baseless simple is its nature,
whom but she shall have the strength to drag him out of the hole.


'Misters and those sisters, fresh little French maids.
Coming and going away on a whim, they sit and wait.

Never knocking at the front door standing out back.
Cats needing dogs the bark on each tree and
the bush is full of green turning brown are the leaves.