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    A Many Freckled Yam

    Mama peels a yam

    And in the frail absence of flaw

    She is perfection

    In the golden of her skin

    Lies a many freckled story that tells me

    Where she’s been


    In sun-soaked concrete

    Stints of asbestos tiled white light

    Or abandoned warehouse sits in sun

    Peeling through demolished scaffolding

    That tells me of

    Her life


    The lighting

    Becomes a phase

    Her story

    And in peeling a yam

    She’s the best she’s



    Or has ever been

    I recall the horror

    Of shaded darkness

    Ages of let-go blindness

    A father, mine


    That whimsied a perry drink in hand


    Her arms are thin

    But with a muscular strong

    Used to row, in a team

    Many a freckled shoulder


    Will lead me

    To wonder

    Why was she ever with him?

    A hair of black strand and

    Endearing eyes

    Mama peels a yam and in what we endured



    The fruit of the womb cannot help but lay in awe of her maker

    And come to her

    To cry

    She’s a gentle kind

    And lays a delicate finger


    To stroke an abandoned hair

    You’ll be alright, baby

    I would like to say to her

    I’m sorry I haven’t been there all the more

    Have been too deep set within my head

    Yet she knows this and is disappointed


    That with my freckled plenty

    I have not had the courage

    To ascend

    Mama was in pain when she peeled

    That yam

    And in pain when she sat


    On a hospital bed

    I was so young

    But no one really cared

    Not even my father

    Off with a Hungarian hairdresser

    The same fingers– hands that would reach


    Among the leagues of death and pain that have come

    At her side

    Mama is strong for her freckled story

    She should be a completely different shade

    With all she’s endured

    And she often looks at me


    With pleading eyes


    I hope she’s alright

    And stiff-board posture

    She tries to overcome

    Independent, non-reliant to me


    Bent over peeling, walking

    There is a distance

    But in her voice

    Hair of beautiful fray and eyes that reveal

    Forgotten pain

    I should have peeled that yam


    But Mama did it



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