Blueberry Street
My mother your mother lived
across the street, eighteen, nineteen
Blueberry Street, lived to tell the tale
but practiced sleight of hand, lived
for glimpses of daylight, threading needles
between the devil and the deep blue sea
Blueberry Street, a world away
from small pine beds tucked snug
beneath the eaves, longer still
the distance between dreams spun
from incandescent candied midway lights
and the endless hours spent waiting
on rescue by the watery half-light of dawn.
Every time they had a fight it left
a burl in the whorl of rings we finger
reading all the way back to the heart.
Blueberry Street, forever receding
into shimmering irridescent ribbons.
My mother your mother lived.
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