Sometimes I’m not sure I agree with what I write

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Sometimes I’m not sure I agree with what I write,
if the air I breathe is really and truly stale and bland
in the basement. If you have a pointed nose
like a bird’s beak or eyes the shade of burnt sunflowers.
I’m at a loss as to whether our house has Victorian trim
around the windows or an art-deco kitchen, and no one’s
confirmed to my satisfaction that the door handle
jiggles because of that awful winter in 1995.

Is my father actually to be pitied?
My mother mythologized?
My version of my lost childhood anthologized?

I’ve got the sad thing down like a posture.
The weeping willows roll in when called.
The death warrants stack themselves paper upon
paper, never caught in the printer.

Sorrow is no longer unexpected. It arrives
with every breath and bird’s beak and door handle. Winter
or summer, that awful feeling of it being there
whether it’s already left or not.

~ Priscila Uppal

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