Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Picnic in July

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on the grounds below the Veteran’s Home

He watches for butterflies
as I puncture a hole
through the skin
of an orange
with my thumb.

Beneath his shirt,
a birthmark
imprinted on his belly --
the tip of an arrowhead
pointing toward his navel.

Yesterday he wondered,
is a flower still a flower
when it dies?

In the parking lot beside us
a man pulls his lunch
from a brown sack inside his car.

A man alone is still a man.

A flower is a flower
from seed to petal to ground.

Just look at this orange
in our hands,

Just look at the pulp we devour.

Paige Heim-Thompson lives in Minneapolis with Steve, her husband of 12 years, and their two children, Charlie, age 7, and toddler Juliet. She works part-time at a local hospital and has had poems published in Nerve Cowboy and Fauquier Poetry Journal. In 2002 she was a poetry finalist in the Loft Mentor Series competition.

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