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Other Poems

If My Grandmother Could Have Written
a Postcard To The
Sister Left Behind

March 26,
Frost's Birthday



often, my sister in the car,
her arms folded across
her heart to be sure
no one could get there.
At restaurants she ate only
tuna and bologna. I curled
as far away as I could
from the snakes of
smoke in the back sat,
wanted to be suspended
between where we
came from and where we
were headed which could
never live up to what
we dreamed. Sometimes
our parents didnt squabble.
Sometimes my father
forgot to write down the
cost of each meal and
my mother didnt have to
coax and beg him to
go to the Music Tent. Some
times he looked as if he
was actually enjoying
Brigadoon or Oklahoma
and my sister came into the
restaurant to try pizza,
didnt just pout in the car
and thought a few years later,
I sulked a little when
they wouldnt let me go out
on a date with boys I met
in the miniature golf course,
each time we left for home,
we ached and longed for
salt air, the beach plum
and roses, waves on the
black rocks blurring
what we didnt want