Poem in rotating spheres
round
serving tray
trimmed in cane
with laminated roses
on which, as a baby
I sat
dimpled melon head
on delicate neck
whatever happened
to that tray
or that fragrant baby
I cradle now
in my forty-sixth lap
my alien
daughter’s rage
the ruffled lace
my mother’s
apron-string-crossed
back by the stove
not
turning round
to hold me
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