She nailed it perfectly and it haunts me . What am I passing down to my kids , whom are we kidding , are we so transparent? Watch Lily Myers!
TEXT OF POEM:
Across from me at the kitchen table, my mother smiles over red wine
that she drinks out of a measuring glass.
She says she doesn’t deprive herself,
but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork.
In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate.
I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it.
I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so.
Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional.
As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast.
She wanes while my father waxes.
His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters…
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