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Mother
May 30, 2015
Had my pink baby fingers
been dexterous enough
to grasp those afternoons
hanging like dust breathed into
a beam of creamy light,
your cheeks spattered with
broken blood vessels and
soft arms holding me whole,
I would not be fifteen with freshly-washed
hands leaning back on
the leather couch,
learning the scent of a cousin’s
newborn hair run
through with soapy water,
the feel of child swaddled in
sweet, ripe skin.
© Ali D., Cincinatti, OH
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