Postlude

When I last saw you, you were wearing a pink shirt
and I was scared you might fall down or talk back,
you might crush to a dust of giggles.
Someday I’ll be married and my
full self will be someone else’s problem,
the arrangement, the allegedness, of portrait.
For now you don’t love me and in that decision
is boneless potential,
it skis the valley, wears pants.
My grandmother used to show me trees teenagers had carved into.
She said bad kids did it. They were birches, pee-yellow with

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