Maria
Hang this one on the refrigerator
please, a gold or silver star
rather than a smiley face
because we kept
inside the lines
or remembered the sky
is blue and overhead
and put apples on the tree,
... small, red marks that only
tore the paper once when
the clumsy fat crayon slipped.
We bring you red pendants
and brooches glinting with ruby glass
because we know you think the color
is lucky
and we want to decorate you
like a tree
or wrap you in shawls,
give you bags to carry your books,
scarlet bookmarks we’ve woven
or cross-stitched or found in
odd little shops
so you will know
we were thinking of you
and then maybe
you will think of us.
Endlessly,
we insist on giving our words,
scratching pens on the
door, only wanting to
be let into the warm kitchen
to be five years old
and sit at the table
in a chair too high
for our feet to touch
the floor
and watch you make bread,
smell the yeasty flour,
clutch at your bright red blouse,
our hands always so empty,
our hearts so full.
by Ann Clark-Moore
Graduate Student at Binghamton University - SUNY
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