| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| Easter Sunday Martha Stewart is on television at five o' clock in the morning giving instructions on baking ham. And here I am, in the front yard making my decision. The reasons to leave it all behind are nothing more than maxed-out credit cards, empty kitchens, and the aftermath of a Super-Christian Exodus. Two o'clock in the afternoon, and I sit on the damp grass of graves telling myself, There are songs to be heard and poems missing my words. There are paintbrushes waiting to feel color, empty cassettes, unsmoked cigarettes, and the wonder of the whisper, "Mother...?" |
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