My father would come back in the still dead of the night and eat eggs—
one after another—in front of my mother.
What do you say to someone who has been gone for so long.
Newspapers collecting on the front lawn. Squabbles left unopened like easter foil
chocolates. My sister and I found these badly. Slower than the other children.
Afraid we didn’t understand English well. OK. Go, now. OK.
Now you can go.
My sister was sweet and followed me doing things.
Flashlight: When you shine through, the veins of our house fill with maples.
How beautiful to be gusted in these different ways.
Your baby had wondrous skin. He was careful like a honeysuckle and artless
ike a honeysuckle. I liked to hold him near. He was closemouthed and did not
cry and it pleased me immensely and I was ashamed to be pleased.
Children should never be quiet. Like the quiet daughters we were. We
quiet. Our crayons. Quiet.
Sarah Gambito earned her BA from the University of Virginia and MFA from Brown University. She is the author of the poetry collections Delivered (2009) and Matadora (2004). Publisher’s Weekly described her work as “a carnival of multiethnic references, intuitive leaps and fiery existential queries.” Her honors and awards include a Barnes & Noble Writers for Writers Award and fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts, Urban Artists Initiative, and MacDowell Colony. With Joseph O. Legaspi, she cofounded Kundiman, a nonprofit organization that promotes and serves Asian American writers and writing. Gambito lives in New York City, where she is an associate professor and director of creative writing at Fordham University.
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