It was a picnic where they first laid eyes
"Maybe it was my hair that made him look"
My mother shrugs back thirty years and sighs
My father snores, his hands around a book
"He brought me napkins when the food was served
My skirt was green and flared around my knees"
Under the weight of rice, their paper plates curved
They sat, two people meeting under the trees
"I guess it was my hair, I had it done –
short in back and curly on the top"
She runs a finger where a curl would be
Father stirs, the book he's holding drops
He rises now and climbs the stairs these nights
They meet again beneath ceilings painted white.
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