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She's smiling, but the blanket is itchy -
a wool military issue hauled up
from the basement. Both her arms
and a foot press down the fabric
as if it sustains a sort of magic
that could lift her. She is not moving.
Iris bloom in the background
along a garden that has become
the perimeter of yard.
My mother looks over her borders.
She peers up through a shadow
of bangs at my father, her collarbone
as fragile as a new bird.
The sun is hot. She wonders why
she didn't wear the hat
with the wider brim, knows her inheritance --
galaxy of freckles on her shoulders,
shock of sparrows against a morning sky.
Jennifer Hill Kaucher
She is a poet and a graphic designer in Pennsylvania. She is also a "rostered artist" with the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. She visits schools and work with children in their classrooms - spreading the seeds of poetry. Jennifer's website is here, Wordpainting.
Copyright by Jennifer Hill Kaucher
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