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40 TelescoPe When my husband’s mother sits on the couch with us And looks like she’d hold him in her hands quiet as a robin’s egg, Bright blue, that wonder in her eyes no matter what he does; When she cries when she waves goodbye to me, how proud She is that I just get up and breathe, That I look at her son just a little like she does, These are some of the things I don’t feel Each time you look at me. Me, your daughter, Never tall enough, smart enough, a rag mussed up, My skin and voice too rough.You look at me from the end Of a telescope lens, miles away in that cool gaze That says we all build our own lives and just look At the small pinched awkwardness of mine, That fourth grader who failed her addition and subtraction quiz When the questions were timed, and she’d been taught to count things out On a number line, your daughter, that freshman in college Who ran home to you, her first year’s grade report Slipping in excitement from her fingers, And when she held it out to you, you looked at it and rolled your eyes, Said anyone who takes such easy classes would certainly get all A’s, You, your stock portfolio still intact, your shaped-up voice Telling me and my sister what organs of yours to donate When you die, you, you’re what I can’t feel Without crying so hard I’m just lost. ...

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