She Liked Pickerelweed

There is a blue glass parrot in her picture window                                                    Dead people are often doing things                                                                                          They won’t stop                                                                                           The sunflowers out back still expect her hands                                                         The birds feel like waifs                                                                                                     without the bread crumbs she would dispense                                                   from a battered old aluminum pot                                                                            The apple trees behind the old, blistering house                                                        she climbed naked in moonlight                                                                                when she was fourteen years old                                                                             are still scandalized

and now have no one to tell

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