"My
mother's gone again as suddenly as ever..."
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Forrest
Hamer |
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Forrest
Hamer
A
dull sound, varying now and again
And
then we began eating corn starch,
chalk
chewed wet into sirup. We pilfered
Argo
boxes stored away to stiffen
my
white dress shirt, and my cousin
and
I played or watched TV, no longer annoyed
by
the din of never cooling afternoons.
On
the way home from church one fifth Sunday,
shirt
outside my pants, my tie clipped on
its
wrinkling collar, I found a new small can of snuff,
packed
a chunk inside my cheek, and tripped
from
the musky sting making my head ache,
giving
me shivers knowing my aunt hid cigarettes
in
the drawer under her slips,
that
drawer the middle one on the left.
Grace
This
air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother
and
I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to
marigolds
at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red
there
is in them.
When
she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what
distracted
her from us.
My
mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months
after
the funeral, I go dancing. I am becoming grateful.
Breathing,
thinking, marigolds.
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