april poem a thon 18

April 20, 2013 § Leave a comment

who knows the mysteries

I don’t remember which house
taught me to peel an orange with a spoon
or to sprinkle sugar (liberally)
on my rye bread & butter
or to make a peanut butter pickle sandwich or
what happened to my bedroom
when I moved downstairs with the boys who
were never a lump

I dreamt last night,
a hard day’s night after the second bombing suspect
was taken into custody, that I apologized
to my first husband’s family and the grandmother
looking every bit like the dowager of downton abby
took my hand into her white gloved fingers
and forgave me, good for all of us, good
for me



Tagged: , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading april poem a thon 18 at here.say..


%d bloggers like this: