Unlike my mother

I always eat cherries straight from the bag –
brown paper smudged with juice – I risk
the stain. I pour milk from the carton.
I grab at life.

I spill things in my rush. I’m grass-stained,
snag-nailed, over-booked, laughing at myself.

I can’t make cakes.

 

 

For Misky’s Twiglets. 

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