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There is a hole in you, Mother
the size of a bonfire on Mars.
Insects crowd your outrageous hats,
your memories of poverty and abuse.
Movies and daydreams bring escape.
You remember too little of the gone
Bijou matinees when each show
cost a nickel and Nona told you stay
with your four sisters, don’t kiss
or hold hands with sweet-eyed boys.
She gave twelve hard-earned cents
for all five of you bambini to buy
ice cream afterwards at Brigham’s.
On average days, you chewed soft
asphalt for bubble gum, slept five
to a bed, never heard of Tampons.
How the sheets stunk summer
mornings, one of your terrified
sisters shrieking through her tears,
Nona unable to explain in English
what all the hot bleeding meant.

© John Flynn 2013

*****

Todays featured poem is our second one from John Flynn. A confessional piece which deals with the subject of family history, memory and the passing of years, it is extremely evocative and personal. With his signature style, John weaves a tapestry of memories and stories together, making something darkly beautiful out of the elements of the subject matter. A well-crafted poem by this great writer.

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