by Meg KearneyTerror is a mirror in which your eyes belong to a woman wearing sunglasses. There she is now, pulling out of the parking lot across the street in a new convertible, bottle of Cabernet brooding like a teenager in the front seat. Longing is that bottle of wine you may never open. But there is the woman again, lighting a cigarette on the corner of Sixth and Twelfth. St. Vincent wraps a shadow around her shoulders as she flicks the cigarette onto the ground and ducks into the dark of Fat Tuesday's. You have spent years following this woman across the city, gathering her cigarette butts and stuffing them into your mouth. Longing is a form of terror. It is the same woman hovering over postcards in a small White Mountain town. First you are surprised she has anyone to write home to. Then you realize maybe she's been following you. But that's impossible. Because this is your mother. She abandoned you long ago.
