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Anna M. WarrockRemembering My Mother's Face. The face is a jug of water. Drawn from a well. Smooth, soft, the eyes arched handles. I look, and look hard to hold her. She smiles how I am that smile. Remembering My Mother's Face. The Salmon Go All the Way to Death. When traveling, the cart cannot go before the horse, and poetry likes it that way. The sun comes up, and it is time for breakfast. At the café, poetry listens to the languages it doesn’t understand, syncopated rhythms for. I’ll have coffee thank you,. What mak...
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