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My mother keeps her grandmother's walnut
dough-bowl like the Ark upon Ararat,
ancient recipes at times fluttering
from the prow like unclipped ravens and doves.
How much do we just become the people
we admire? Can I find my ancestor's
gesture in the way my mother drinks tea
and slices her cake? What old way have I
that was squeezed into my lungs the day
I was born? Whose lip is this, whose finger,
whose saliva hardens on my pillow?
What Do We Inherit?
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