Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

Gina Ferrara

Etched in Graphite

When the mimosas bloomed in shades of watermelon and began their silent cascade in wisps and brushes like days falling after equinox into the tall grass, your mother, who loved me like I was her own, held her bright red yardstick — numbers and dashes enunciating inches on plywood behind the shed, etched in graphite pencil, her plain cursive identifying us with a thick horizontal line that marked exactly how high we stood.