50 years
at the cutting edge
of poetry publishing
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Mara Bergman, from The Disappearing Room

House of Innuendo

I grew up in rooms of dark corners,
my mother slept with a knife.
Breakfasts were sliced with uncertainty.
I was hauled to school on a bus.

At night there was silence
or blasts of TV. I searched
for the man in the dark, prayed
for my father to come back,

heard cutting beyond the glass
of my room with two views: the house
of my best friend – her frantic semaphore
and lights – and our well-kept blooms.