Move – Lucille Clifton
They had begun to whisper, while their
Children
darted behind the shinned
Hardness
of mini-vans as
Martha
went out to do yard work.
Women
who called themselves mothers
Pointed out
of their ammonia shined windows,
Telling their
friends about loss that they had
Never experienced,
and hopefully never would.
We
decided to move last month,
To a
town that didn’t know my wife,
A town
that would understand loss.
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