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Anne Dyer Stuart: Daddy’s Sisters

March 8, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

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.

Filed Under: Issue 101, Poetry 101 Tagged With: Anne Dyer Stuart

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