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1240 SHERMAN AVENUE
Days, she screams, cajoles, bitches, crawls
on her belly like a snake. Nights, she throws
herself onto the bed, muffles her sobs
with down plumped in long-staple cotton.
The woman who lives here knows
that the coin that buys houses, soap for the bath,
clothes for her children, lapis lazuli
necklaces matched with earrings set in gold,
is paid by the hand that slaps her around.
In the back, long-limbed boys row
fragile shells over the lake. In the front,
silver maples dwarf the colonnade,
sway in light breezes, drop leaves in high wind,
threaten to break with every storm.
Published in Prairie Schooner,
Spring 2003
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