Author:Estes, Angie
Position:FOUR POEMS - Poem

On the front porch, the mud cups of barn swallows hold up the eaves, push-up bras the swallows keep slipping into like boomerangs sliding back to a hand. My mother taught me how to make a fist, fingernails tucked inside, how to slip my hand through nylon stockings without a snag. At the street light where someone has thrown a stone and knocked out a corner of glass, the sparrow enters her nest as we head into the theater for a matinee. I knew it was time to take a break from writing poems when the woman at the bank asked what kind of form I needed to have notarized, and I said power of eternity . So let's slip into something more comfortable, like character or your native tongue, and...

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