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Literature Text
I kiss you hello, get out
new snapshots and knitting,
then fifteen, twenty
endless minutes, gridlocked.
Tucking things away,
again I kiss you.
I leave the home, escaping
here and now.
That last time, I couldn't
stomach his odor; I never did
kiss him goodbye.
Literature
daughters
my 5 year old daughter only wants to run
through the park, loping beside our wolf-puppy,
both lean & fierce, joyful
as she tosses her hair back
& suddenly I see my body
in hers, tireless & certain,
despite my pounding heart
& damaged limbs, I run&run&
then she gives for a moment,
tumbled full-length in the grass,
feeding the puppy from her cupped hands,
& demanding, scratch my back too!
then down her sides & over the ripples
of her ribcage, her leaping heart
& tummy, still baby-soft,
until the shadows reach us & I
must give her back, inch by inch,
a long, twirling hug
my mother will echo with sad arms,
murmuring, you look really good,
Literature
Grandfather
I recall,
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
resting against
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he
Literature
Why Peter is not a poet.
Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Col
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Response to "Yesterday" by W.S. Merwin. Explores my reluctance to spend time with sick friends in hospitals and nursing homes, and the consequences of my short or nonexistent visits. As I get older this becomes more and more of an issue. Specifically about Michael and Barbara, but could be about anybody.
Major rev. 10/15/13 12:01 pm
Rev. 10/15/13 4:18 pm
Rev. 10/16/13 5:16 pm
Major rev. 10/15/13 12:01 pm
Rev. 10/15/13 4:18 pm
Rev. 10/16/13 5:16 pm
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Comments4
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This really does perfectly sum up how it feels to visit someone who is sick or dying...