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White picket fences are cliche
and against the Deed of Restrictions
Mine is the house with a weed-tangled yard
tricycle and garden tools
sitting askew.
Kitchen with hot tea,
fresh cookies
and room for imperfection.

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Whispers

We are still here,
we forgotten women,
hidden behind our
husbands, sons.

Working, each in her own way.
Behind laptops, behind cameras, behind closed office doors.
Flinching when the phone rings, or the boss walks by.

Waiting for the deliveries.
Online retailers make
our lives easier,
we say.

But we miss shopping together.
The sisterhood of shopping trips.
We don't know if these pants make our asses look big until
it's too late.
We are committed to these pants now.

Just as we are committed to our families.
Joy in watching each other's
children flourish.
We smile over coffee,
knowingly. She
did that.

We whisper to each other
what we've given up.

We whisper to each other, wondering
How did she vote?
Is she one of us?
We whisper as we try not to judge one another
for how we take our coffee.

We whisper our secrets to
empty houses.

Waiting for the husbands, sons
to come home.

We whisper to
ourselves, to
each other,
You can do this.



Kitchen Times

Tea-sipping, cookies baking,
laughing until it hurts
knowing the hurts are normal
that perfect is a dream
the Devil laid on me.
Imperfection is holy.
It's how we learn.