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Margrethe H K
Poems
Oct 2014
Letters from New York
My mother wore wigs and drank bourbon on Sundays
while my father worked across the street
I'd watch him from my bedroom window
sewing, stapling
hammering out frustrations I couldn't name
I called my sister David
because I wanted a brother
and a different family
My mother called my father Jesus
because she said he thought he was perfect
"Jesus, cut the grass."
"Jesus, take out the trash."
"Jesus, just ******* do it."
I'm grown up now
my name isn't Stupid Girl anymore
I've inherited my mother's rage
and my father's heavy sighs
Dark days I find myself thinking
my finger tracing the rim of a shot glass
you can't outgrow
what you're made of
And I feel inside of me
the breaking of glass
My sister writes me long letters from New York
she signs them all
love, David
Written by
Margrethe H K
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