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by Andrew Broadous

March 2019

I see her up ahead,

nineteen paces to a girl

I almost knew, her

raw umber unfurled

on flannel shoulders.


      A slight turn -

She might pirouette

if it weren't so cold,

this girl accustomed

to bright halos in Sun Valley.

Smooth-shaped lips.

Pointy cuspids in a laugh.

Daughter of daylight

and barnwood,

with a Stetson to make her

her father's.

     Once more -

then a voice unbelonging to

this mountain bluebird.

Deep scarlet locks.

A wrinkle in her name.

     I recede, feel the gentle

     infarction bred from this

     hollow truth.