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Showing posts from March, 2015

This Remission, a poem by Bonnie Maurer

This Remission by Bonnie Maurer 1. We discuss who gets what. I want Mom’s old Mixmaster, my sister—the green marble table. Who gets the giraffe collection on five shelves? And I search my own shelves for vacancy flashing, like perusing the neon hotel signs on the Miami strip as a six year old in the family car on vacation where we ended up at the Driftwood Motel— which fits this remission where we stay with mother now, lodged on shore before we are licked wet and tumbled back to spin on the tongue of a cancerous sea. 2. Mother has tossed her yellow wigs for hair grown back, white as the noon sun on the water, white as the table top she continues to deck. She taught us this much: Order. And set the table ahead of time. “No matter how prepared you are, there is always something ,” she says. 3. Many , I say. My sister has put her name on masking tape strips and affixed one to the Chinese tea set, the rose vase, and the Austrailian Aborigi