it would be like that time in the small
upstairs kitchen when I watched my new
friend as she slowly cut cucumbers. mint
fear
stopped
rustling like the pines in
my
grandparent’s backyard. somehow,
between bits of tabouli, we sank into
acceptance—an oil that fried us
until golden and light.
unbroken
by peers and recess, by
the
two streams of snot that used to drip
to
Andy’s lips, smudging “unlovable”
across
his face when he was barely six. whole despite
the
summer before Junior High, when I traced
milkweed
and train tracks, burning
because
I could never date Josh Hershey
without
cooler jeans and a better ass.
that evening we forgot to be “good
enough.” I twisted
lemons and it felt like heaven. wingin’ it, like jazz, we
were free.
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