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Suds
The large, enameled sink
eats her red knuckles.
Mum bent to
her silent threadbare work.
I have new long pants,
I worship their long-ness,
how they stretch my young body
into an imaginary manhood.
Mum threatens to wash them soon,
I back away as her laboring ribs
speak.
My lips
make the shocked shape of 'why'!
Her hands keep thrashing suds.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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