Helen Thinks About Frank

No, now I remember—the special
was meatloaf and buttered peas.
There must have been a potato, surely,
but I remember the peas, how we
chased them with our forks and one
rolled under the counter and we
laughed and laughed. You took my
hand, then, in both of yours, said how
sweet it was, and small, and dear.

A lie—

by then, Father had died and my hands were
crabbed by sewing and laundering. You can’t
wear thimbles on each of your fingers, or
gloves every minute of every long day.
Some things can’t be prevented, protected,


of all the lies anyone ever told me,
I always loved yours best.


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