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The moon pianos through the window
where momma sits and plucks broken
keys – black, then ivory, repeat in this no

music. It’s monsoon noisy – shingles flap
against the roof, her fingers bang mindmusic
into nonexistence. I try to draw her a new face,

redmouthed, owleyed, but I could not contain
the edge of her shoulder as it thins in the skin
of her or the notes she couldn’t give me. Instead,

I draw a dream tasseled to a windmill and a daffodil
that decides to live. I tell her it is important
to have growing things, even if they are never found

Created: Apr 07, 2014

Tags: poetry

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