Ever imagining the dire, the sudden
the menace with no thought of the
gradual, the lingering itch of whatever.
That was my sister.
A stomach ache had to be diagnosed.
"Oh, come on, it's no big deal."
"How do you know? You aren't me."
At the doctor's office she waited.
He reached for his stethoscope,
held it to her back and put it away
in his pocket. Then, leaning across
his desk, he asked importantly,
"How long have you been eating your hair?"
She couldn't answer.
After surgery they came into the recovery
room where she had just wakened.
"You are a lucky lady. We found nothing."
She had an incision and several visitors.
Besides, she was so lucky (incisions heal)
and not a little disgusted.
"Me, eating my hair."
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Comments about this poem (Lucky by Dorothea Tanning )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
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- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
- "Hope" is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
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