New England Heart
February and the daffodils are nosing
through my midwestern lawn,
February rain bringing March flowers.
Leaving school the path is daylit and people
warble good byes, arms waving from open cars.
Bicycles are dusted; children lose their hats.
It's all wrong.
My New England heart wants
to return to her own dark kitchen
where yellow light puddles
like warm tallow on the oil cloth;
wants to boil beans, soaked and swollen
to tenderness, until they slip
from their jackets,
smoke and shimmy.
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