He’s No Politic I’m No Saint; How We Often Step Into Meaning

Wrapped twice around a frail neck 
is the lace from my mother’s slip
slipping further from where she ought to go
going forward in the most domestic way 

Pale in a pretty green dress
waves sway back and forth around me 
mashing and folding 
bending and molding 
to the perfect dirty
dirt dinner taste of pebbles
dark and dirt
dirty fingernails peeling like the apples
we baked our autumn pie
with the crisp
crispy child’s eye
late night teary sleep
sleeping slumber
she’s birthed another one to keep
keeping count of many 

This is number twelve 
he is bouncing and joyful with eleven to feed
feeding tiny tongue and laughter 
laughing from a French name’s meaning

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