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Post by MoonyLuna on Dec 25, 2008 12:08:31 GMT -5
The day my mother dropped a net of oranges on the kitchen table and the net broke and oranges rolled and we snatched them, my brother and I, peeled back the skin and bit deep to make the juice explode with our laughter, and my father spun one orange in his palm and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938," said it without bitterness or anger, just observing his life from far away, this tiny world cupped in one palm, I learned I had no way to comprehend an orange.
Copyright Sean Lause
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Post by MoonyLuna on Dec 25, 2008 12:09:44 GMT -5
Featured Poet Sean Lause
Sean Lause teaches courses in Shakespeare, American Short Story, and the Holocaust at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio. His work has appeared in The Mid-American Review, The Minnesota Review, Poetry International, The Xavier Review and The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry.
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