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patterns on water
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Poetry | May/June 2022

Amy Winehouse is Dead

By Michelle Oppenheimer

She slumped at the kitchen table, 
face pocked with scabs.
She hadn't been home for nine months.
Refused to tell me where she'd been.

Mommy, can I come home? 

My daughter, on the eve
of her twenty-seventh birthday. 

Now, I check her breathing while she sleeps, 
Wake her to make sure she's alive. 

She shuffles through the morning kitchen
on the way to her back-porch cigarette.
In her ratty green bathrobe
she grins at me through the window 
blowing smoke, singing along.

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