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By Erin Lee
I chew on
curling my tongue
around them. Tart and sweet
at once as I search for the perfect dash -
smelling of Spring and the potential in manure.
They dance in my nose, causing me to ask myself:
What is it that you're craving? (A fried bologna sandwich).
I am transfixed by the twists in their form. Some long and awkward,
others short and to the point. A drop out poet might call them "right on."
Ink stains the page in familiar patterns and I remember back to the time before
I could read them. Where they were like great mysteries. Finding joy in encoding them
like crosswords I play with now on Sundays with green tea, blueberries, and Life cereal.
(We serve pulpy citrus juice and kisses at exactly 11 a.m.) It's then that I wonder,
how did I ever live without them? They wake me in the heart of night, begging
as I reach for my glasses and purple pen. Rain checking them into the page.
"I can hear you. Yes, I will look you up. Yes. I will call back Monday"
when the kids are off to school and the house is still. To do. To do.
I finger them, chasing their strong lines and whimsy, blissful.
(Never one afraid to stare out a window daydreaming).
They are fuzzy and warm. They understand, agree,
like childhood friends living parallel lives
and hopelessly waiting for
Mondays where they'll