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The cow was hanging on the wall, opposite the checkout counter at the Sweet Charity resale shop in Vergennes, and I fell in love with it immediately.
That I was in Sweet Charity, without children, on a Saturday afternoon, was due to a series of anomalous events. My husband was in Chicago for work, so a generous friend had taken pity on me and invited all four of my children over to her house to play for a couple of hours.
One afternoon earlier this month, my daughters and I gathered around our kitchen island for a snack. I began asking my eldest daughter about a book she was reading. After a few one-syllable responses, she was tired of my questioning. Looking me right in the eyes, she said:
“’Every man his own priest,’ Mommy.”
The other night, I took the dog for a walk down our driveway.
December 22nd, 2016
For the past several months, I’ve sensed a heaviness in my writing, an unbroken seriousness that leaves me with the uncomfortable feeling that it’s time to crack a joke.
So Bev Megyesi can stop me at the counter
to say, Gary, I didn’t know you were a hunter,
having read my poem in the local paper.
The one the editor chose, because it coincides
with the last weeks in November, deer who have
to be remembered.
I tell Bev it's my poem's speaking voice, the one inside
my head I write on paper. That’s news to me, she says.
It sounds so much like you I thought you were
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