One died, but before that, stopped
speaking to him. Last time
I saw her she said, I just shoved
an onion up a turkey’s butt. Outside
our car Thanksgiving Day, squat
like me, short with child feet,
her voice the burnt thunder
of a smoker. At Christmas
the living room filled
with every kind of Santa—wind up,
bean bag, lit up, plush.
The other got a second wind
in her daughter’s teens,
tanned nut brown, dyed peroxide,
starved, encouraged boys. Rage
so hot she’d twitch with it, dart
to the side, not loose enough
to walk upright, she’d fling
herself from one end
of the house to another, dog
following only her, cat never
leaving the attic.
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