Thursday, November 24, 2016


Fee Fie Foe

I’m grinding your bones with mortar and pestle,
but I’ll use the bread maker your sister bought me.
I had to sacrifice one:
I chose the ungrateful brat who visited
not once when I was ill,
but you’ll be here for Thanksgiving
in body, if not in spirit,
contributing, for once, to the festivities.

End of poem

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