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Editor's
Note
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Two
Poems by
Denise
Sandra Kenny
Cabbagetown,
Toronto, Ontario 1957
After
the honeymoon I
followed him to
Cabbagetown. He
lived with his parents at
number 10 Clark Street behind
a butcher shop where
rats fed on offal from
overflowing bins. It
was small, the house, rotting from
the inside, filled with
faded 1930s furniture; we
had his boyhood bedroom, his
mattress steeped in
adolescent sweat. His
mother loved me, let me use her
rusted washer which chewed and
spat my lingerie; I
remembered how it looked placed
on my bed a month before when
friends and family gathered for
my trousseau tea. I
helped his mother cook, made
up our bed with pristine sheets, new
pillows; did the things my
mother taught me. I
thought of home; clean,
familiar – my
parents disappointed with
my choice. We
worked, had little money, stayed
at number 10 until
we found a flat we
could afford. I
was 18. He was 20. We
should not have married in
1957 or any other year.
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Dream
Babies
The
telephone interrupts my reverie. York
University calls from Toronto. A
survey, they say, of Kingston's Public Health. As
if I know anything about
pregnancy and
fetal alcohol syndrome; as if a baby ever
sucked my breast, or a fetus fluttered in
my body for more than two expectant weeks.
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