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

 

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