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Lake
by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

time slowed
and asked me
to remember
childhood
dreams
and fantasies
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
dew kissed
mornings
the drone
of honey bees
raw scraped knees
drawing
on the sidewalk
with sticks of
coloured chalk
hop scotch
my skate key
for a lagger
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
my sister's
blue-black braids
coiling asp-like
upon the white
embroidered
pillow slips
the streetcar trips
to the penny
candy store
for liquorice pipes
and red wax lips
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
that last frosty
Christmas morning
standing
a thin small child
with stocking feet
in a flannel night gown
on the radiator grate
trying to keep warm
in a house gone cold
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
the hush
that fell
upon the room
the day you died
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
the objects
on your dresser
the bowl
of oatmeal
shaving soap
the brush
tortoise shell
glasses
the mirror
that cast
no image now
the comb
your silver
money clip
a cup
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
your leather chair
your gold watch chain
your patchwork quilt
the guilt I felt
the Sunday comics
you read aloud
the pattern on the carpet
your pomade scent
time slowed
and asked me
to remember
the things
my adult memory
had forgot
time slowed


for Lake Reynolds
1888-1952







 


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