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5 Suppertime for Mary Oliver Mother’s on the front porch Calling me Back from midsummer in the drowsy dusk— Those rose hues of wool and moss And the shadows slouching after everything. All afternoon I felt The leaves flick in a light wind, And by a small pool green with blisters I scraped the scum back, Letting the tadpoles push and flow, Loving the struggle For the two-way bodies they were born to. Sometimes every step I take Leads me farther from myself, until the world, Like a blacksnake pressed against The clay of the creek bank, Slides its slow head up To warn me With the sun-drugged razzle of its tongue. And then I stop—as last night I waited A long time to watch that possum Stand up from the dead, looking Awkward and hungry and half-made, Swinging its bald tail at the moonlight. 6 It’s late, it’s always Too late—that hour torn between The woods and the cleared field, marooned Where the bobwhite hides and sings To itself its own high name, before The voices deepen in the dark, Calling their children home. ...

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