Mom and Dad Never Kiss Anymore This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

April 29, 2017
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A seven year old girl swaddled
by air, looking out
and away I am


that heated coffee and careless
thumb that knocked anger into white linen,
a catalyst for


polished black office shoes in disarray,
pivoting towards the door,
I am scattered


holiday dishes printed with villagers
making maple syrup, packed
away with reused tax boxes
and newspapers.


I remember being an
Andrea Bocelli song sung
in the Honda Civic,
the torn sheets


hidden from a girl
when her parents felt
young. I used to be


arms carrying a sleeping child
off the couch, a book
eased out of small hands.


Father never watered her plants,
Mother slept in my bed when I went to school.

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