Liz McGehee

The cat sits like a loaf of sourdough in  the  living
room.  Each  night,  we laugh across the sky as if
signaling  mutual   exile.   Another  tuck  beneath
dusk,   and   we   are   planting   the  wind.   Our
grandparents    huddled    together    in    french.
Scrawling  the chalkboard with promises to speak
English. On the bayou, houseboats remind you of
the missing. I remember snippets inside my body
of  storm.   Maelstrom  as  I  sat  outside  of  the
casino.  From here,  the pain of home disappears.
What calls out is something torn.

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