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L.L. Barkat Reads


The Watching

If memories were sparrows,
mine would gather behind
a house half finished aluminum

sided against the landscape, windows
glazed from the inside out with smoke
of cigarette and venison burning. 

They would crowd in lavender lilac, 
above the intersection where each year
a robin laid impossible blue eggs,

one of which it seems would always 
break, sully the perfect roundness 
of a mother's mud-patched efforts 

to prevent a deadly cracking. Sparrow
memories would rock limbs, tremble 
leaves, blot out the threat of rain

while brown haired girls peered over
rim of tight worked straw to watch 
a miracle of twin eggs coming to birth.











Picture
L.L. Barkat
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