For Helen

My mother tried to teach me, squares
of duct tape over each key. I’d peek

when she left the room. She gave up,
said: if you learn how to type, they’ll

just make you do it. Yesterday, a man
I didn’t know said: If you’ve got skills,

I need a good secretary. I put one foot
toe-to-toe with one of his, a hand gently

on his exposed arm, and whispered
against his bristled chin. Mom said

all teenagers think they invented sex,
all forty year olds pain. I have more skills

than she hoped for, the price, letting go,
the yielding to pain, the great preserver,

keeping me buoyant until a new thing
appears and the sureness of her voice

always to be heard when I peel back
what hides the next bright thing to come.

Laura McCullough is on the faculty of the English Department at Brookdale Community College in New Jersey where she is the Chair of the Visiting Writers and Lecturer Series. She holds an MFA from Goddard College in Vermont and has won a New Jersey State Arts Council Fellowship for her writing. Her recent  work has appeared or is forthcoming in  The Paterson Literary Review, Faultline, Exquisite Corpse, In Posse, Slant Review, Whimperbang, Slow Trains, NYC Big City Lights, and Pierian Springs Review.