April 2012
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my father said: all of it
this is so beautiful
writingsforwinter:
at the coffee table
my father, with his
shaking hands in his lap
salt from the ocean blowing in
through the windows,
said:
this has got to stop.
the single rose in a vase shuddered
and spun on its stem;
the petals fell
and my mother said, what does?
all of it, he said.
all of it.
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