Poetry
Kitchen necromancer, mom unburiesthe washer each week from its shallow graveof crochet magazines, Wonder Bread bagsof phone bills, coupons clipped and saved towardssome unexpired future where Point Beer
No makeup or mirrors, nothing that reflects,no TV screens, no tinted glass, no tin.No clinging clothes or cameras,no photos or frames,no possibility of any shape, trapped.No trappings of any kind,
At seventy, the final thing she wantedto learn was to dive:
to tuck her chin to her chest, betweenher outstretched arms and to fall
headfirst toward the bottom she had bothfeared and yearned for since she had
White clapboard worn to silver sitsstraddling the crest of a dark wave of soil, sailing a froth of sand atop the dark, implacable earth.Below us in the trough, hidden now by the spray
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