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by Ricardo Means Ybarra

The arrival of ants
and the wet weather
are noisy as the turning of cement.
But this is what I wanted
to lie in bed with you
to crawl among the bones
the smell of dark hair
blunt toe nails, sunlight
on tired wings
pine sap and lost teeth.

So what if I meet them
my face lopsided
the pillow case damp as a marsh
covered with cat prints
love letters
sheets the color of windows dripping.
Will the ants care that leaves
stain sidewalks
worms struggle to breath
or that my skin shines
because you are here
next to me
with your eyes of sliced watermelon.


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