After Eating Pizza at Your Grave

 

 

The nasturgeons are in bloom and I miss you,

though our past was faux and we got everything

bass awkward, Mom.  Sometimes you threw

me a loop and I flew it---why just this morning

I bent in the shower and scrubbed the hollow

of my ankle with my thumb, made a shallow pink

bowl of it.  You taught me this, When I Became

A Woman, how the dirt sticks in there like a bruise.

I wash and wash, and when I borrow a slip

or a coin or a mutton chop I return them promptly.

No one has to ask.  You were floundering

when you told me that salmon is the Prozac

of the sea, but it was years before I met a grizzly

whose life was changed by that.  Of your two eyes

the glass one had clearer vision.  If you could only see

the dolphiniums threading the whitecaps today,

you would know that I mean what I say.

 

 

Suzanne Simmons'  work has previously been published in The New York Times, The Baltimore Review, Fifth Wednesday, Smartish Pace, Calyx and numerous other journals. 

 

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