subtle teething

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Nights spent at the pool, drives home where streetlights pinwheeled through wet eyelashes.These were years broken fingers, sores. Early morning by the garage, so many orange peels and the small spines of fish. In those days, there was tenderness and low, mouths empty. Sometimes pink mattresses, girls waiting outside gas stations, coat pockets deeper than river bank mud, a gallon of milk swinging from their knuckled grip. In those days, I would forget to blink and the land bruised around me, a sky pink and ripping through itself, bleating over the power lines, the snow. All this space yawning past us, and sometimes your voice would reach me from across the parking lot, waterlogged and scratched. Sometimes processions of yellow lights, and when we reached the mouth of the tunnel, a fever of black. There was too much water in my room, too much room in my mouth, my boots dredging through the snow, the black sky hounding. And you, the sore eyes, missing teeth.

And sometimes I knew your name, other times I looked away too fast.

 

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