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Poem: My Brother Cares for Our Mother 

Despite myriad work sites
flung as a deck of cards
cut, shuffled, and strewn
a half-globe away,
he phones nightly,
his speech gentle,
his discourse jaunty
yet measured as the ticking
of a clock. Most times

they discuss the rabbit.
It runs, it sits, it eats.
It is the web he weaves
to support her, his silk
strong as steel, she
delighted to be caught
in its circular threads.

“He must be the luckiest
bunny alive,” says my mother,
smiling herself to sleep.

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