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When your mother died she hurried back,
a basket of oranges in her blue arms.

She suffers us in her small shoes
& lace hat, underneath
a hand-painted sign, ripe oranges.

She was the elocutioner.

She is sick I say & you—it is not
you, your mother
with this unwieldy umbrella,
many-mouthed blossoms
all over it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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