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Friday, Nov. 27, 2015

Produce (from July 26 edition)

Saturday, July 28, 2012

The girl in my womb cries wolf

through ten days of false labor.

Overfilling her space, I realize

this is only her first rebellion.

Already she measures me,

and feeds on my spirit from her tendril.

My grandmother fed generations

from a root cellar,

stone stacked on stone

and dug in deep,

even the morning air kept to midday.

Wooden planks sagged under

her sacrifice of vegetables,

tightly packed in brine,

and berries sealed in paraffin.

I want for my daughter

to make a self-preserving place.

I shore the ceiling, sweep the floor

and turn over the planks to correct any warp.

Overhead on a shelf,

protected inside a spider's house,

I save a blown robin's egg,

a broken porcelain doll,

mussel shell buttons

and a cardinal's wing.

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Deborah Quigley Smith
FreeVerse (Fine Poetry for Citizen readers)
Deborah Quigley Smith has published poems in Melic Review, Long Pond Review, Sequoya Review, and Poetry Miscellany, as well as other print and online journals. She has an English degree from Harding University and currently lives with her husband in Quigley's Castle, in Eureka Springs.