sometimes I have nightmares

about the smell of your hair dye

the gently pressed corners of your

pies – you never – used your own crusts –

but you called yourself betty homemaker with

a slightly maniacal laugh and

when you laughed you cried a little bit

on the inside

and the tears gently collected in the pit of your empty

starved for attention

belly

salty and sloshing back and forth

as you sway in your little

floral print,

hand-made

apron.

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