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Daughters
The scarecrow slouching
in the beetled melons
says hello, and we,
cool out here among red cows,
red wind, red suppers,
do too,
trust you are eating breakfast,
taking walks,
meeting the sort of people
you hoped you would meet.
At night,
we drink on your bed,
peer through
the rain colored window
on which you used to print
your feelings and your feet,
and we think, thoughtfully,
of ourselves,
the pond grown catfish and
newly dropped apples
we fed you on your favorite
bench (Joseph has nailed
your dolls to it), and of big Bill,
who now
lets the fruitflies muster freely
on his lashes, misses you we think,
and, how to say, is dead;
we hope you
have registered your bow
and rifle, try�wear your pants
above your butt crack�
you know that grandpa would
poison all of us;
the tree is aglow,
your my-two-heroes essay yet
sways from the fridge,
remember that freckles are the fruit
of a righteous life, and please, please,
please, please, please, please, please.
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