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Our House

Mother was
          a waterfall at night,

a pewter eye.
          The moon

between her fingers
          half in or out of sight.

Mother was a moth
          who tried to settle on the water,

held fast to the bedroom wall.
          Four children

stirred the pool,
          made a school of pike,

a choppy wake.
          Once or twice

a hound dog growled,
          dipped his big brown paw

into the stream, almost leapt;
          a threshold

is the place to pause.

Sarah Gorham

Bad Daughter
Four Way Books

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