After Li Po’s “The River Merchant’s Wife”
When my hair was still auburn,
I picked oranges from our tree on Downey Way
in Sacramento. You played giraffe,
circled the tree with your orange picker.
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Lovely That Black Crow, Grandmother Brought into the Camp
Years later, my grandfather
reached into his pocket for a handkerchief
and extracted my grandmother like a molar from the grave
There’s no exception to the strangeness