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Sultry, Humid, Running to the Metro
by Lyn Lifshin

forgetting pills and running
back to the house, finally
on the train, a flash to that other
May, my hair just washed.
Chloe on my wrists and behind my
knees, your favorite blue lace
panties. Today time seems
botched. It couldnít have been
so many years since I slept against
your back, as many years ago
as your son was old, long enough
for† me to have a daughter with
eyes as blue, to haunt me.† The
green, maybe, a wall of it like
trees I drove through, that moist
avalanche of black emerald.
Or was it the tea rose leaking
on my skin made me think
of long hot hazy hours in your
kitchen, in different rooms,
moving toward your mouth. Or
the low pressure, like when
electricity went out and I
wanted the dark to trap us,
torn trees to block the door. The
elastic is still good in those
lace panties,† my hair is growing
longer, as if it was a flag
I could wave to let you know Iím
in town, as if you were living and
I were coming to you, still high
from a dance class where,
when I stretched and warmed
up, it was as if for you.






 


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