Love

Puppers

We were nine. I believed everything you said. Touching a toad gave you warts. Step on a crack, you break your mother’s back. Kill a spider and it rains. We made grasshoppers spit tobacco, knew the divinity of buttercups, daisies, and dandelion chains. Such puppies in love.

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In here

So many, here, write words of love. Words of yearn, longing and lonely. Are they for one who is here, or has left and cannot come home? For one who wants a conjuring to bring warmth to a sad siren. In dream, I conjure you, the writer, with hands soft, warm, and strong. Alone.

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The face in the shoebox

That polaroid. Buddy was going through his shoebox of old photos, dealing them out like cards on the coffee table. I was stunned, but faked disinterest. The party drifted to the kitchen. He wouldn’t miss it. Xenia, how came this? So young. So innocent of your appalling destiny.

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In you

In you, I have dreamt a glowering cloud bank lowering to feather the fields. Gloving the lava sun that waits to cure the purchased rain. In you.

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