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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1242977
by hollyb
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #1242977
common experience
I named her Maureen
after my grandmother,
she had to be a girl.

In dream-fields I saw her,
in sunlight--
messy, black curls glint blue,
blue eyes liquid and deep as wax,
chocolate on the nose borrowed
from her father, smeared with freckles,
and her dress hanging
lopsided at the neck.
Chubby hands reaching
up
to me
calling me mama
begging me to spin her round.

In my sleep,
I curled my arms around her,
arms tight around the middle
where she was growing--
that sunlit girl.

And with watery morning sun,
while the alarm shrieked,
I found the dream dying
in striking red drops,
shattering red drops,
slyly blooming on
starched white sheets.


© Copyright 2007 hollyb (hollybrooks at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1242977