Nuclear Deal

A hug from a woman who's not my Mama

but has raised me nonetheless is

warmer than our run-down apartment in St. Louis.

Streetlights would allow shadows to form in my head.

They go away when I see my nephew's eyes,

blue like my step-sister's.

He hasher blonder hair

and my stepmother's curls.

I wrap their love around me like a blanket.

This poem is about: 
My family


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