Even my best friend thinks I’m in the country.
8 lines✦
kin doesn’t have roots, it peels away easy as paper. When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I’m twenty,Broody and in long skirts on my first husband’s sofa, my fingersBuried in the lambswool of the dead poodle; I hadn’t a cat yet. Now she’s done for, the dewlapped lady I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror— Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
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