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burnt toast

you didn’t come home

until the very next day

you shuffled in, electric 

energy from other hands

still circling your

ashamed feverish head

like Saturn’s halo 

 

your naked finger tapping,

rubbing worn-thin

too-expensive

rust red trousers

dodging questions, dodging

glances: a sideways

dagger-eyed bride

 

children circle like

knowing natives,

moon round faces, 

pool and threaten to overflow

you reassure them,

I provoke, compensating,

like a surgeon, I cut in

 

monologging interrupted

by your cell phone,

it jumps and sways and

moans under the weight

of its ripe truth;

toast is made and burned

and remade

 

salty thick peanut

butter on fingers and lips,

like forever,

six in the morning,

it was your birthday

toast always burned,

i like it better that way.

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