Mama was always cooking up something,
      and very rarely eating.
Which is why, I guess, I grew up thinking a woman’s work was:
      providing for others, 
       and never really tending to herself.

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PoetryJulia NusbaumComment
Little Things

Remember when it was brand new;
when we were brand new.
How we’d sacrifice moments of sleep,
for even the slightest extension of togetherness.
How everything was mystery and possibility,
and inside one another’s eyes was an oasis of hope.

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PoetryJulia NusbaumComment
Hide and Seek as a Way of Life

Her hunger like a secret wanting oxygen, is hiding
  as she crouches, 
  considering it wasteful to truly disappear, as others require her- 
Curiosity nags her careful and considered breaths
  and she hasn’t the ardor to say no to the children
  so she seeks concealment.

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PoetryJulia NusbaumComment
The Farmers Market

I wonder if God, coolly watching from the stars,
sees me here
alone at my kitchen table, lit by my one yellow candle,
dim warmth on a green-black avocado, purple eggplants
and dusty potatoes crusted in dirt,
a lumpy smallish pile on the scarred table.

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PoetryJulia NusbaumComment