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Jeanine Stevens
Two women, a kitchen table—
a green print dress trimming
golden parsnips, purple turnips,
white winter squash, releasing
the raw cruciferous odor: thunk, thunk
against the cutting board,
stacking chunks neatly in an iron pot.
The other—silently smoking,
eyes at the bay window,
a window more a trapezoid than
squared panes, her eyes, a tricky
perspective on the horizon. Outside,
all small: saltbox houses,
slate boulders hugging a splintered dock,
and surf cracking pebbles on dull sand.
The fishing boats are late, but here,
inside this room, a meal prepared,
coffee made, the table set,
and fresh blueberries in a wooden bowl.
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