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Poetry | May 2016

First Memory

By Kim June Johnson

It must have been spring.
There’s the smell of wet earth,
the absence of cold. I lift my head
and above me, suddenly,

are shards of light, sharp green leaves
—a willow maybe—and the sun
in its branches, pressing through,
breaking into pieces. My mother

is close by—I am aware of her hair,
her quick hands—but far enough away
that I feel held by something else
—the air, the willow branches,

the fingers of the sun.

1 reply on “First Memory”

amanda halesays:
May 18, 2016 at 7:55 pm

Lovely poem Kim June, one of your great strengths is your motherhood, and of course your daughterhood.

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