took my hand like a
little girl’s
led me home to her
old house
where it was summer
and nothing hurt.
The dew had wet our
shoes.
We left them on the
rag rug
beside the door and
went inside.
I smelled her dough
again
rising in the old
dishpan
covered with the
checkered cloth.
She took her apron
off.
We went upstairs and
emptied the trunk
of quilts and yellow
sheets.
She gave me a bone
teacup, too.
Then she moved
barefoot
out the back door
toward pine woods
skipping like a little girl.
The Mexican hat
she wore in the
raspberries
kept sun
from her ethereal
hair
leaving more
for berries.
She picked them in
pairs:
one for my birdmouth
one for her cup
then stirred hers
into sunshine jam
saved on the shelves
in the back of a
closet
with the dented cup
and the Mexican hat
dropping dust
on dry lips
in the dark.
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