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These doughnuts are spelled with an “ugh!”
and were mine. But they are
are pinkening Sara’s fingers,
and I suspect the cinnamon twist
of Ben-shaped treason.

Last Tuesday, dishes began
their own grazing
and I’m pretty sure it is not
my turn to wrangle them from pasture.

I do not know how oregano
sprouted from our ceiling.
In a few weeks, when it hangs low
enough, I will ask if it belongs
to anyone. Then

clip some for eggs.
The best is when we’re all
postured as if we had a sofa.
Legs comfortably skewing.
Our palms taking charcoal rubbings
of the carpet. Overstiff elbows.

Once Ben had the idea
that all windowsills were Baptist
Preachers…the first steps
toward the light.
Sara said he was

transcendental. And I just
swallowed my bagel
where it sponged uncomfortably
in my esophagus.

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