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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 4, December 2013

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Deborah Guzzi
Monroe, Connecticut, USA


Lost Hearts

February winds pound the siding, scatter sand left by the snow plows through the gray air. The house is full of small noises. The cat has taken up his guard post in his rug-covered tree house and purrs in tune with the ping of the hot water pipes.

empty chairs
surround a table—
cold tea

Scanning the tidy kitchen with its Wedgwood-blue counters and rustic farm-scene border, I note, the cabinets need a good rub down. Murphy’s Oil in hand, I approach the oak with determination, and a soft pink flannel rag. The scent of lemon oil, crisp and clean, wafts past my nose. With great care, I climb a gingerbread chair to reach the highest cabinets over the stove. I balance, just praying the seat cushion doesn’t slide from under my feet. I open the double doors and see a stockpile of holiday décor now unused. There below the paper Easter eggs, I see them and a tear comes to my eye. Empty now, decades old, of all different sizes, red satin boxes, Valentine hearts.

blue veins
on the backs of aged hands—
a plow passes

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