This Woman, Two Generations Removed

Absolutely exceptional piece ♥️

The Eggcorn

She said last month, 
after knowing her 50 years,
that she cried on my behalf
every weekend after I graced the porch,
which smelled sweet from petunias,
with my crumpled paper-bag luggage.
I didn’t tell her that I cried too, 
with downcast eyes
and contracted shoulders, 
willing invisibility
from terrifying locusts
singing in the trees.
Or when the sweet sour-cherry jam
was replaced with
twenty-nine cent tacos and
I was left to shake
my dirty clothes
into a pile on the grimy floor.
I never told her about
the nights alone,
when I couldn’t close my eyes against the moon
because suffocating dark amplified
ghosts of angry voices,
those nights, when I couldn’t find the stars.
She said, last month,
that she should have bought me a suitcase.
I just laughed, because the paper bag didn’t hurt
but with a tightening chest I knew
that was…

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