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Posted by on Aug 14, 2022 in Fiction | 0 comments

at home with her stuff — for my mother

at home with her stuff — for my mother


the sun
lies shattered on ice

rain peels the paint
wind strips the clapboard clean

intoxicated ants
mill over roadkill deer
ravens divide

who feeds on the ants and wasps
what chews on the dust
who bathes in the ashes

among the many things
i find it hard to remain


the responsibility
and fascination
with brocade

pearls and ebony beads
ruffled ribbons
on gold shopping bags

antique drawers
stuffed with ephemera
newsprint in silk bags

she lies there in sunlight
and lemon pledge
magazines in blankets

parquet collage
ivory and mother of pearl
inlay, chinoiserie

victorian green
plush upholstery
velvet and faux marble

and a glass bird
in a glass cage
in a plastic cube

i remember
when it shattered
in hot water


so ugly
reduced to effort
at last

the scoured crevasse
collects dirt
for the dandelion

the small ferns
in wet walls
grow bright

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