There is no
mythology in this
There is no allegory.

It’s in her lungs and her
brain and the
lean, liquid
column of her
spine. My mom
says, “You know
what that means.”

I catch a
pothole on the way
home, and then I
sit on the front steps and
watch the dogs
in the April night.

There is no
religion in this poem.

In their old
house, there is a
blue room, cushions
covered with
miniature prairie
flowers, lace
curtains, a gingham
cloth thrown over
the table — everything

There is no
in this poem —
even the ones we draw
up to entangle

Her mother
is not my mother,
but she is hers.
“Isn’t everyone really
I say to my
and then she
asks me about
my weekend plans.


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