Somewhere between blackberries, strawberries,

my father's gnarled old hands

and the deep, damp breath of his garden

the house moist and the basement dark

and in the bedroom there was a crooked bed, beautifully worn

still sifting through the walls the fragrance of my mother

and her raven eyes on all the furniture

us sitting in the little plastic basin in the sun

and the memory never deceiving me


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