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… mumbled into an oxygen mask, his hand clutching at Mom’s forgiveness, eyes dark as blindness. Out the window, the stars glowed like votive candles lit for a lost and dying sinner. When I was forty-three, my father was the sound of dirt shoveled on a casket. A future of forg…
Theodore McDowell
Jenine Bsharah Baines
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Stunning.
J…Jen…Jeni…Jenine... Proper names are poetry in the raw. (W.H. Auden) Poet, singer, seeker, hippie grandmother gleefully revealing herself
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