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Day 18: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


My mother makes Japanese 
apricot wine every April.

She places the bottles in a dark 
corner of the kitchen cabinet. On a plain 

table, a handful of fruits are piled. She puts 
daffodils in a vase, but her room is always 

gray at the hospice. After I brush her long 
hair, she says, “They taste good this year.”

Tonight, when cosmic dust falls 

into Jupiter, I open her last bottle. The sweet 
smell spreads in the room like a cloudy 

green nebula. I pray that stars 
upon stars scatter in her breasts 

and vaporize those overflowing cells…
The half eaten apricot is 


She leaves it behind.

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