HOW IT FEELS
Twisted. A sweater wrung
in a towel to dry. Gnarled.
A tree trunk where leprechauns
might hide a pot of gold. Contorted
around its center like a Chinese acrobat.
Convoluted, wound up, bent: my tongue
when speaking from my heart.
Alice Stori
Circa, late 1990s
aka Alice E. Storaasli
b. December 20, 1935 - d. January 7, 2004
***
This poem was written by my mother, Alice Storaasli, during the late 1990s. She won a contest for it, and banner-sized versions of it were displayed for a month in city buses around Portland, Oregon.
If you knew my mother, you would recognize just how much this poem explains and describes her way of showing emotion.
Happy Birthday Mom - Wish you were here to celebrate it.
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