he is a water sign/she is a fire sign/both signs are masculine/a fight to the death
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his eyes never leave/her fingers/her fingers never/leave him/ my palm pushes/its way into her skin
I’m not sure when it happened, when I became a corporate muse to my boss, a Mother Hen to my peers, and the type of employee who is resigned to wasting time by covertly taking notes about
above the city, a burden./dreams of leaving,/dreams of returning;/the next morning,/I do not resist.
What is luck? We all have highs and lows, emotional, personal, and professional mountain peaks and valleys, but we too easily recall the downside
water puddles at angles of life-sized amethyst/squirrels the colour of autumn/steal away/their pockets stuffed with sunflower seeds/yellow bellies
My son, when he was on the edge of teenage-dom (around “ten-teen” as his aunt accurately labelled this age that teetered between the innocence of childhood and the grittiness of adolescence), wrote this line for a classroom assignment, “I am sad that my grandfather died.”
He speaks. his hands touch her face. intimate gestures. they share. I watch. his hands. read his thoughts. he reaches across. the swell of her face. the weight of his finger against a shadow
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