I play
with friction, skin
and air,
a ripe blueberry
between my lips.
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Women’s Lib
Mom packed
all week,
folding and putting
clothes in suitcases,
wrapping keepsakes
in newspaper,
setting boxes
in the hallway,
Dad kicking them
as he went by.
“You’re not going
anywhere,” he said.
“Just put it all...
