Through The Window

Through The Window short poem

Photo by .reid.

Through the window, I see the bare trees.
I hold hands of family members—not my
Family—of which they are unaware. Truly.
Sadly. We celebrate with champagne
And shrimp cocktail. Their warm welcome
Chills my bones. With each sip
Of champagne, I grow small and hope
To grow smaller still until I can slip
Through the crack in the window, alone,
And escape to the trees where I know
It is colder. But still.

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Barbara Matteau

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My poems have appeared in such varied publications as Fulcrum, Dancing Shadow Review, Maryland Review, the Dudley Review and the Antigonish Review. I also write short stories and plays. I work at the Center for African Studies at Harvard where we provide support for various African and Africanist pursuits.
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