Having dreed her weird
Of falling down icy stairs,
Giving birth to my mother
And dying my grandmother
Must have needed to find
New things to do. Perhaps
She learned to throw knives
With variable accuracy making
The afterworld a place
More exciting. My mother
Would not be surprised since she
Grew up loving an old woman
Who, forbidden by arthritis
To use can openers, would hurl
Meat cleavers across the kitchen
To open cans of condensed milk.
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