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What They Don’t Remember
By Mari Maxwell
We sit on silver-painted whiskey barrels,
eat mashed banana sandwiches,
chase around the apple trees.
Bare slender limbs to pick the ripest fruit,
always farthest out of reach.
Hide in the crook of the branches
and spy on suburban Dublin gardens.
We bruise our fingers on loganberry briars
for a jar or two of jam.
Run to the corner shop for ice cream blocks, wafers,
then dash home to where Dad
slices thin bergs for us all.
After Sunday dinner
stacks of sliced apples between Mom’s
A dollop of cream to sweeten the sour
and find us once more
climbing, climbing the crook of
the apple tree branches.
We sing songs around the piano
after supper and rosary.
Squint through curtain slits
to eke out another chapter or three,
from our library stash,
while the older ones
-with special dispensation –
continue to play outside.
Ceasefire in our domestic zone.
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