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Teresa Maison |
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Epitaph The night lingers it's fog heavy presence replays over and over in the darkness. Nearly out of focus my eyes line up with your memory magnetic and easy, calmed by the sporadic visitors and cheese platters. We never knew what to put in boxes, store away in the comfort of the closet or stash back in the stillness of black. Only how to read your last lines, curved and flat in the slate of gray. Grain sand along them. polishing moving within each line, fragrance and grease from the lemon oil we made from scratch. The floor is the spine of the house, or so my mother thought; it must shine for those who walk upon it. Glowing in the fluorescence of the kitchen light we ate off it once when the man came and took our table. away. Splintering at it, stripping it down removing our family's stain. |