Yellow Bowl
by Rachel Contreni Flynn
If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,
if the rug beneath us is
woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table
rests with the sweet heft of fruit,
the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,
and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet
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