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Remembering Mom

Joan Baranow

Rain.  Real rain
so that I ran out to close
the car windows.
 
At first the ground
sipped it with a strange
sound, like rubber-soled shoes
skidding on a gym floor.
 
I had been asleep, almost,
not believing it could rain here
in July
though the sky
 
had been filling itself all day
like a child carefully coloring
a paper sky with gray clouds,
 
which is how I now imagine it—
 
a child gripping a crayon
intent on his work
and then tearing it up.
 
And then, my mind
goes again to you
in the ground, getting wet.


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