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raisins by Rebecca Holand

raisins

the best is a raisin sandwich
(the honey doesn’t count)
it’s in the press of raisins
the soft fold of bread

if I had a brother
he’d christen it
rabbit-turd munch
burping a beer

if my sister hadn’t died
she’d slip lox in, brie
mocking the raisins
macho-man caviar

later, by sink of dirty dishes
she would turn, grinning
raisins wedged
between her teeth



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