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SWAK—A lipstick
kiss smacks the mirror
at Tibbett’s pool. Coppertone and chlorine
blue water, bubbled black asphalt.
Ingrid, the neighbor’s retarded daughter,
showing her underpants to anyone
who asks. Days like stops on a flute
through which wind blows—shouts
carried uphill. Anthony talking dirty
in the woods behind the school,
beer cans in the stream bed, cigarette
butts on a path. On the lawn, purpled
rose petals. Jazz boys, says Alice,
jazz boys, and takes off her clothes
and dances. Signs in unfamiliar
language, fireflies trapped in glass,
women doing dishes in the kitchen.
Piccolo sounds under a streetlamp moon.
First published in In Vivo. Copyright © Diane K. Martin
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