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My mother says I'm lucky.
When she was sixty
her crows' feet had spread
until it looked like crows
had walked all over her face.
"Your skin comes
from your father's side of the family,"
she says, "the Italian side.
They don't get wrinkles.
It's all that olive oil.
"Look at your Aunt Rosa.
Her skin was so smooth
the mortician didn't even need to use makeup,
but he did, of course,
they all do, heaven knows why.
Who wants to look like a madam
when they're dead?
Don't let them do it to me."
First published in Ilya's Honey Spring 2004 and Nerve Cowboy Spring 2006.
Used with the author's permission.
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During her life, Ruth Bavetta has moved from geology/paleontology to painting to poetry. She writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Visual art informs many of her poems, as does the landscape of Southern California, where she has lived all her life. Ruth also writes of cooking, of her Italian immigrant family, the experience of growing old, the singularity of toothpicks, and the sorrow of Afghanistan. She likes the light on November afternoons and the smell of the ocean; she hates pretense, fundamentalism, and sauerkraut.
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Cindy:
the most original poem I ever read - loved it
Posted 12/09/2014 09:17 AM
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mimi:
wonderful poem, sweet and funny too!
Sharon Auberle
Posted 12/09/2014 08:33 AM
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lincolnhartford:
Lovely laughs at breakfast time. Wonderful connections.
Posted 12/09/2014 06:48 AM
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rhonasheridan:
Hilarious!
Posted 12/09/2014 01:24 AM
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KevinArnold:
Ah, a great snap-ending that leaves the reader, or at least this reader, wanting more.
Posted 12/08/2014 11:19 PM
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