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The Lilies The mother cell hibernates, seeming she will forever produce inside one sack of groceries: celery, carrots and poor potato food. The fat, pot roast daddy hugs a deflated basketball (9:00), still in his gym socks and sweating on the brand new couch already with crow's feet. I am sure there were never doves to answer Noah's prayers. They were freak-bleached ravens that knew what it was to feel pain-- to carry it on a jet-black back, an ironic peace symbol in vain. There has never been peace after a flood. Peace is not flesh burning and screams. Peace is not in this house-- mother cooking again, boiling her strength out to threaten suicide and make me crazy. All this, when I only wanted a room full of lilies-- never on sale at our market, guarded by pigeons in the city, and almost invisible against a March sky when it rains. |
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