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

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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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