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Notes on longing

Apple #364

Poem share from the subway poetry project

By Lisa Chang

It smells of after-rain tonight.

Duck bones, a wounded egg on rice.

On the corner, there is a shop

that makes keys, keys that open

human doors, doors that lead

to rooms that hold families

of four of seven who sit at a table.

There is a mother who brings

sizzling flounder on a wide platter

for the family whose ordinary

mouths have been made to sing.


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