Then, all the things was garnish,
two youngsters and a home,
a spouse who saved the
beds made, shirts ironed,
secrets and techniques hidden like mud
on the canned items.
What can’t be washed
with vinegar—
scum of the espresso pot—or
set out within the solar with
contemporary linen
my mom swears
needed to be ironed
and I imagine males
made work for girls,
invented tile,
starch, matrimony,
and ama de casa
to cut the tomato
and lettuce typically
in bowls, usually on the facet
as adornment. What
is the connection
between mom and
daughter, tree and limb?
The second I say my
reminiscence isn’t of her
unhappiness however of her laughter
I’ve gotten all of it unsuitable.
The brilliant break up of my
start was to a lady
who needed me
to put on my ornament—
a tree cleaned of its bark
after a cool winter doesn’t
overlook its leaves.
This poem seems within the April 2024 print version.
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