zafusy

The mother allows us
home to hers.

Shows like sweet shingles,
the roof caved
above the kitchen.

The lawn never grassed & salted hill beyond.

Shoes in the bedroom and the milk-cow
painting hung above the oven.

Says, if I light matches it smells like
almost dinner, at least
like something roasting.

And this little cow
moos for me, see?

Anne Heide

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