An image of the interior of a closet, mostly in muted colors.

A dress at the back of my mother’s closet

calls my name. Mod and mini, bold

in colour, high-necked and cinched

at the waist, she’s begging me to

dance with her, like mum did at ten years

younger than I am now. She recalls a hand

at the small of her back, the sound

of my mother’s laugh, whirling

twirling twisting to Fleetwood Mac.

Mum smiles at the sight of us:

the dress’ design, she says, only

fit for a figure like mine, her

own having slipped from her grasp

as all youth does in time. She

treats the mirror like the sun,

centre of the universe and

impossible to look at for long,

though the weight she carries exists

almost entirely in her head.

Mother’s mother self-deprecates

while she eats a slice of cake on her

ninety-second birthday, as if the miracle

of her supple body is not the very thing

we are celebrating. Never mind the

children her hips bore, and the child her

child’s hips gave, who is wearing a dress

that remembers only a soft caress,

laughter and the feeling of my mother,

spinning, once free from that ugly



An image of Glennys Egan, a person smiling into the camera with their head tilted slightly to the side.

Raised in the Canadian prairies, Glennys Egan writes poetry in Ottawa, Canada, where she works for the government like everyone else. Her work has been published in Taco Bell Quarterly, The Daily Drunk, Nymphs and other lovely places. You can find her and her dog, Boris, online at @gleegz.