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Glass Ceiling
T. R. Hummer
Because she wanted to teach me a lesson
about the natural world, my grandmother raised
Her .22 rifle—we were rabbit hunting, so the shotgun
was at home under her blue chintz pillow—and brought
you may be thinking. True. I said “my grandmother”
Because if I’d said “my mother” you wouldn’t believe
a word of it, since a mother should be leading
A research group, or running a software company,
but a grandmother still can dress in buckskin
in the underbrush I gather the rabbits to me
And we tremble together in the riptide of her passing.
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