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PoetryRepairShop |
July Dark Enough (PoetryRepairShop MM.03:026) to keep the globe of plum chunks and canteloup on in the dark hall light barely got thru. Etched glass. Huge mirrors, smell of strawberries and camphor. My grandmother in her room all white with such a tall bed I'd have needed a stool to climb up. Mid-afternoon, wasps buzzing near the window apple trees scrape my plump thighs kissing each other in a way I wished they didn't. Hair curly from being hosed at playschool because I wouldn't make sand huts in dying lilac. On the landing, a porcelain woman whose one arm held a light, skirts swirling, as I was as my sister, 30 miles north, travelled toward light from my mother's belly while uncles drove from fort Devon and Tennessee in scratchy army uniforms as if to control what they couldn't (To copy or translate this poem, please contact LYN LIFSHIN) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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