Mary's father watering vines,
dreaming of wine; honeysuckle
arching sweetly,
as drunken bees in frenzy feed.
Mary's mother hiding her lover's key
beneath a terracotta pot,
overflowing the brim with lilac flower,
the air scented with thyme.
Mary writing secret poems,
scratching the silence, hearing
the echo of unmade beds,
dancing in burgundy dreams. |
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