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House of Cards

ISSUE:  Summer 2005

I miss you winter evenings
With your dim lights.
The shut lips of my mother
And our held-breaths
As we sat at a dining room table.

Her long, thin fingers
Stacking the cards,
Then waiting for them to fall.
The sound of boots in the street
Making us still for a moment.

There’s no more to tell.
The door is locked,
And in one red-tinted window,
A single tree in the yard,
Leafless and misshapen.


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