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[personal profile] aslant
my grandfather in the car with our styrofoam boxes of fish
and chips, cradles the bag like it's a live thing,
says to me

it's coming home
still warm
in my palms.


i slept on the bus, fell asleep watching the skies fade into dusk and tired trees. boston is beautiful by south station, dirtier and more industrial than elsewhere. the girl in front of me wrote furiously into a notebook and had beautiful wine-colored hair. i wanted to slip into her skin, find out her name.

grandma dished up pumpkin pie, and grandpa told me the same story he always tells me, about how she was the only one to ace the exam in nursing school. anita, his star pupil. when i call them he answers and passes it to her, he can't even remember my name anymore. he says here she is, the best wife i ever had.

the little muscles running up inside my thighs ache from running the other morning. i feel them lengthen when i walk, pulling so sweetly. it reminds me of those little muscles that you never know you have, that ache the morning after sex.

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aslant

July 2013

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