the porcelain blue lady on the shelf
once quiescent in a window of my grandmother’s house
in a Pennsylvania town of 50 coal miner families, blue lady
welcomed my sister and me each summer
with endless stories.
I don’t remember a one, though I know the words
run in the facia of my life,
waking me to the stillness of the rabbit
halted in the yard
nose twitching to know the world.
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