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Haiku Free Verse Prosies
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At dinner, we share the plate
and pass the glass
before two women, alone and mired
in the aftermath of illness.
You boast of my plans for motherhood. I ride
in the front seat, leaning back to entertain.
In the North End, we walk
with a rhythm that you, and I, and these women know
means we are together, even if
those straight girls with their black dresses
and painted toes,
and uninteresting boyfriends
might take you for my maiden aunt.
At the cafe, the touch of your foot
on my shin reminds me. What you say to me, what I say to you,
or what we say in front of one another
shouldn't matter. In movies,
it never matters. The music swells.
Waves crash. We see
a sweet kiss, and a segue to the next day.
At home, you say it mattered. You didn't like it.
I have an earache. You are cranky from an afternoon
of errand-running.
My chest tightens, and walls
spring up where none were before.
In the small room inside, there is a child crying.
Frances Donovan
July 1999
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