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Feb 2011
She is saying goodbye
to an old friend.
Discordant telephone cord
pulls itself away
as mosquitoes emasculate;
warm summer night.
Her voice lingers in the humidity
perspiration
drips, slides;
empty whispers.

Crickets and cicadas circa 1947,
running through fields at midnight
riding the bike pass the gallows
that was Uncle Mike's,
tender breeze through hair
like a mother's stroke.
Shoe soles stomping cigarette buds
in haste,
driving through cliffs
diving into continuum (then)
holding out for whatever comes.
No more.

All is leftβ€”
rustling leaves
sepia tinted photographs
tattered edges;
reminiscences of warm summer nights
retold to a child.
Written by
Natasha Sim
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