I am loved in cold mornings and pursed lips, her feet callous and bleed over cracked hands (spill the beans) my mother hugs me at the departure gate, snitches on herself in a hitched breath goodbye her lips won’t part for. one day I ask if it’s me: my fresh mouth, hellraisin, how daddy spit me out so himlike? or the way her momma loved in clean sheets and fried bologna sandwiches? how I seen auntie chuck plates and flip the spades table, but she always cry silent? I am loved in graveshifts and new clothes and whatchu want from the stores and I almost said it back but would she even hear me?
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