I’m as Bare as the Tidal Basin
I am a tree stripped
of blossoms––that is to say
time has ripped away
all that was beautiful
and every blush of promise
but the wind caught
each petal––carried
velvet white and pink
to grass and river and nest
those small, soft pieces
shed so painlessly
I didn’t know to miss them.
When it Rains on Thanksgiving
The way the storm
swirls errant leaves
and they land
on the sweet potatoes
but I pluck them out
edges trailing tacky threads
of melted marshmallow
and I hope
no one will notice
the patchiness of potato
peaks bare of that
pillowy sweetness.
The family casts judgment
like fistfuls of glitter
a shining censure
a residue of reproach
that sticks in my throat
as I eat the entire pan.
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