Summer 1945 • Vol. VII No. 3 Poetry |

Sentimental Theme

Frankly, Mother, we have fed you always aconiteand antimony, but our best behaviors sat byat the table in those polite years whereofwe had gladly composed a commensurate sonnet,but lacked the countenance to cry. Dear wizened thing, lacy and furbelowed andfrilled, how within our schoolmarm-mindswe once chanted your graces in arbor-dayvoices, when it was deemed probable the worldsat eavesdropping behind its blinds. Little darling, now you are bereft, and the cuckoosputters no more contradictions from the clockto rebuff your tarantula eyes stunning ours,or your hands lifting sweetly our cardboardships off the workaday rocks. Jack-in-box dreams skirled wickedly throughyour soprano commiserations; our haircuts toobarbed, our breeches too short, until the magpieexperiences thieved nearly everything away, leavingbehind only a fossiled baby shoe. Or we tittered on darkened benches when wethrew memories on invisible strings in your path asyou bobbled by, pulling them back when yo

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