MJ Werthman White



You could not leave your weaving
long enough to feed an old dog,
last white-muzzled link to your husband,
mirror image of your own fidelity?

Not bother, in the heated press
of supplicants, to bathe him, brush

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Lies I’ve Told

I can’t. I won’t.
I’m sick.
I’m tired.
I’m busy.
I didn’t get the message.
I was at my sister’s.
No, I’m not bored.
Yes, I love you.
No, I never loved you.

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Small Birds of Superstition

They forget who they are—
my lovely aunts with berry-stained lips
and Midnight perfume. My darling uncles
sent off with handkerchiefs
bleached and stuffed in their shine-worn suits.

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