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Archive for May, 2025

Hunger’s Cousin

When her baby was born,
someone whisked her boy away
and placed him in an incubator
sterile, touch free.

And Mama brought her child home.
They grew, separate and fat,
looked similar yet knew
of each other as strangers.

Mama stands now at a deli.
She orders three pounds of ham
and 24 ounces of cheese.
Two women behind her snicker

at both her and the chubby child.
A third woman mentions
the shade of her worn blue coat.
A weak compliment. Mama fakes a smile.

Then another customer says she recalls
the date and hospital where the boy was born.
She recognizes her son’s name.
Mama gasps and the woman smiles.

I took care of your son in the nursery.
For 47 days. She touches both Mama and her boy.
And prays for a miracle. She knows
Mama and son live hunger of a different kind.

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“Most people don’t grow up. Most people age. They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children, and call that maturity. What that is, is aging.”
Maya Angelou

Haibun for a father

One quick kiss for your daughter and you and your new red walker head for the dining room where Sunday’s fried chicken and sweet potatoes wait. No cauliflower. You will watch to see how many residents leave their boiled vegetables on their plates, gifts for the garbage, your hatred for vegetables universalized. “No room at the table to chat,” you tell your daughter and son-in-law. “It’s okay to leave now.”

She wonders what thoughts you drag with each slow step. Your doctor doesn’t take long-term nursing home patients; his associate does, and he is on staff. Your daughter told you this less than an hour ago. You want to think of home as the place where you raised your kids, where you did your woodworking, and where you loved your wife.

But you knew, you’ve always known it is different now. You said you could sleep for 24 hours and never get enough rest.


Your daughter replays your words as if she could change them. She enters the key code to exit and pretends they are only lights and buttons.

One leaf falls on water
It will float across or break
into new parts like seeds.

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The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.

Mark Twain

BIRTH

Swollen, toxic, ignorant of motherhood,
you lie in your post-World War hospital bed,
and wonder if you’ve heard lies.
How can a newborn, untouched
by her life source, be fine?

You see, hear, touch, smell nothing but
bleached sheets and ward antiseptics.
The baby develops away from you
in a nursery. You return home. Without her,
cord leaked into your severed womb.

At home, baby grows fed on evaporated milk
and rules made of rules. Should-be’s without question.
The child reaches for you, to break the barrier,

but not until long after she delivers your grandson
.

Does the touch feel real?
By then your weakness has led to the inevitable.

Your great-granddaughter finds your photo in an old album.
“That’s my mother,” your daughter says.
“You would have loved her.”
The chasm finally closes.
For no good reason at all.

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