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Poetry

The December Poems: Three

Things come in threes. Death so much so that
breath catches, toes curl, time pauses upon
receiving the news, and every ring of the
phone for the next few weeks sends icy
fear to my core as my brain maps out
the location of each of my people.

Births. My mother, brother, and I all fall
within a ten day span. All three of my
babies slid into this world in less than
a month—with six years between.
When one mama announces a pregnancy,
others quickly follow; something in the water.

Rivers. Dimensions. Stooges. Point turn.
Musketeers. Little pigs. Piece suit. Ring
circus. Legged race. And wishes are best
when the Genie grants you three. Father, son,
and holy spirit; and oh, the three wise men
with their gold, frankincense and myrrh.

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