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Indian Summer


ISSUE:  Winter 2017

 

When you are young,
and he kisses you
from the side.

The muscles in his jaw—
I see them.
The infinite 
desperate stretch of his,
rendering the whole
of blunt language 
insufficient.

And you,
where our mother’s face
softened; good times
when work was done,
house cleaned,
a Thursday night
of cheap tacos.

It was never 
so simple as then.

Except here, you
beaming his intensity 
out to all of the plains.

These are hardscrabble days
but then surprise kisses
bloom like Indian summers,
wild and glorious,
echoing backward
and forward too.

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