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 What will I do with my grandmother's deep black
cast iron skillet
under my mother's rusting bleached stove?
      Heavy stone, oiled star.
My mother who's worked all her life for this little blue house,
what about what her hands did?
And the hands my grandfather gave to all of them?
My aunts' green thumbs     wound around a squash's vine?
What will happen to the bodies we left in the ground, in the street,
the uncles on the fireplace mantles,
the cousins we've misplaced?
This land didn't treat my grandmother right while living,
I can only imagine
             what it'll do to her bones.
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Author:Daye, Tyree
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
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