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Poem: Soma Smithereens 

Neither parent
recalls the making
of my first memory.
I asked them last week
in their separate houses
when their second spouses
weren’t around.

I’m grateful that night
is all mine, shriek and all.
And maybe that’s why
when I turn on a lamp
three decades later
I still expect it to fly.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Michael Vahsen.

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