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User Rating:
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5.5
/10 (31 votes)
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Grandma, come back, I forgot How much lard for these rolls
Think you can put yourself in the ground Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio? I am damn sick of getting fat like you
Think you can lie through your Slovak? Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage? Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit?
I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue You beat me up out back, taught me to dance
I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread Your wavy loaves of flesh Stink through my sleep The stars on your silk robes
But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk
Carolyn Forché
| Submitted Date |
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Monday, January 13, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: sick, dance, remember, sleep, star
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