The women sit before a turkey,

baked for hours, always

counting the minutes,

tapping feet to a tune,

squeezed into hand-me-down

heels from sisters. Their faces

shouldn’t fade. Stars in the sky

that holiday. The light not

bright enough to see by, until

it is moistened.

I clip my sisters

out of the photograph, out

from headless bystanders.

The fabric scissors are sharp,


cut. I press

the shape to my skin like a tattoo.

Why would you want anything

to be permanent, they ask.

Acquaintances fall away

and I am obsessed with ends,

depths, the crumbs at the bottom

of the paper bag.  




More Remarkable Finds
My House

My House

Let me give you my address so that if you are in the neighborhood you can drive by, see if they’ve repainted.
The Spirit of the Horse

The Spirit of the Horse

There are deep impressions in the grass, tracks from your truck and muddied sod from the vet who “put him down.”
In Quiet

In Quiet

I like it when quiet paints a portrait, moon-like countenance. In the background, day plays away at everything the world needs for movement.


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