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Mom and Dad Never Kiss Anymore
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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