Lucinda J Kinsinger

Poetry

I Know a Mother

I know a mother who lost four children when they were still tiny, their limbs and their features unformed. She wants badly to hold a child that is hers if for only an hour. But she will never know their faces, their genders, until heaven. She weeps. I know a mother who laid her four-month-old

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The Kitchen

When I wrote this poem some years ago, I thought it was a bit boring. Such plain subjects: a kitchen, baking, a woman. Now, reading it again, I love it. Plain or no, simple things are beautiful. Reading it, I remember my mom. She is the subject of this poem. And I remember the grateful,

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