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The Chair Where I Sat Reading
While My Parents Made Love
was not a big chair.
I could haul it all over
the house. Usually
I dragged it to the back
screened porch where I sat
trying to make sense
of words, sounding them out,
their wildness crowding
my mouth as I practiced
each knobby line
again and again
until I had it down smooth
as a kiss, rocking
all the while, licking
my lips as if I were grown.
Page after page
like this until at last
I was lifted, lifted
out of my small chair.
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