"wedged" poems
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
74.7k
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
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Departure the welcoming light to walk slowly into the darkness
Wedged between night and day, for a split second
The splendor the Sunset Walker can see is captivating
Observing the color of the cloud's and sun's transformation
Seeing reflection transition flashed across the sky
The eyes take pictures of this wonder and describe it
So others can feel that they are walking along beside you.
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
you
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
scratching, tearing
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
bleeding, uncaring
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
too pristine
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)
you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
and
mango never smelt so bitter.
when
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth
i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
tapping
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.
the mango
around our home
had long since
turned bitter
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
and
boys give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Lou,
You're an orphan now.
The deciding vote
In your favor,
The good kisses,
The latent reconciliation
Linger in this thick room.
You won't need to clean chimneys,
Work in a blacking factory,
Get your ears pinched, and your **** kicked.
You've laid out a fine plaster effigy
In this cherry box;
Yet Enzo's nature is hidden:
His personal tears
And public laughter
Aren't in this demeanor
With rosary weaved into the basket of his hands.
We've polished our shoes,
So we stand and discuss
The crucifix wedged
To hold up the lid,
And how we follow our fathers' footsteps.
We knew it to end this way
With our fathers' generation.
*But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his...*
I too am orphaned, Lou,
And we'll continue on
As orphans do.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
At a very small age, much too young
to know what a true love felt like,
I learned that I’d never be the
special girl in your life.
I could see from the distance already
wedged between us that there would
always be a much larger section
of your heart that I’d never be
good enough to fill.
I was only a very small part of
your world, taking up a tiny section
of your heart like a sliver wedged
deep inside the membrane of your
greatest ***** like a paper cut to the
side of your finger; so small just to push
aside but too much pain to forget completely.
I was the mistake you were trying to
move on from, to put behind you,
to forget about me as if I never existed.
Even from a modest age, I knew how
to long after a man who barely knew that
I belonged to him.
You were out of my league;
in a total different game.
I could hang on to someone like they were
the air I needed inside my lungs to breathe.
But you only ever wanted to be let go.
Oxygen is nothing that I’ll ever be able to touch.
You taught me what it meant to be temporary
before I would ever know what commitment was
and I learned soon enough that
they didn’t mean the same thing.
I tried and I tried and I tried
to be your girl.
I experienced my first broken heart
when you asked her to marry you.
We never had a relationship
but she became the wedge between
our potential friendship.
I learned what heartbreak felt like by a
man who said he loved me but had
the strangest way of showing it.
I learned that actions spoke louder than words
but sometimes actions didn’t speak at all.
I learned to never believe the truth
because you’d taught me how good a lie
felt within my ears;
like the harmony of an orchestra whose
conductor was blind to the instruments
being played in front of him.
We’ve never known harmony;
always out of tune,
I hated the sound of music.
I loved fairytales but hated Cinderella
and the reality that she brought to my life.
Blood wasn’t thicker;
It meant nothing to be related biologically
when romantic love came into play.
From a young age, I learned the world
was a cruel and unfair place
and I had to fight from my
corner of the ring by myself.
I learned what favoritism meant
and not because you chose me.
I learned temporary,
but never knew commitment.
The ratio of lies to truths was far greater.
After knowing distance,
I knew how to be cautious.
After you broke my heart,
I learned hate.
I knew how it felt to hate before
I would ever know how to love.
I knew it like the back of my hand;
more than I could ever know you.
But it’s time I taught myself something
so I’m learning forgiveness.
I forgive you,
for not knowing what it means
to be a father.
I forgive you for never choosing me
and for always picking her.
I tried and I tried and I tried
to be daddy’s girl,
but you never allowed me that privilege
and your heart was never large enough
for both of us,
so I forgive you for loving her more;
I forgive you for being my dad.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Don’t love me.
Please, don’t love me.
I know myself, we’re quite close actually, and let me tell you, you don’t want to fall for her,
you don’t want that girl, I hate her.
I hate her because I know her so well and I know how horrible the truth can smell.
Don’t love me, because even I know to hate myself,
the vanity that despite this loathing I might actually believe that someone could fall for me.
Don’t love me.
Don’t love me, because I met Heartbreak once and she left me gasping for air
and I will never meet her again.
I refuse, so if you love me, please be aware that when you do,
some day I am going to leave you, battered and bruised, because
twisted self-preservation has taught me all the tricks to keep myself afloat by drowning you.
Don’t love me.
Because as much as I will love you, I’m not friends with Commitment,
and whenever I see him on the horizon I set off running in the opposing direction.
I will treat you like there will be no oxygen unless I’m holding you,
but when you’re the one reaching for my hand I’ll become the wind.
Commitment is not my friend, I said, but no one listens.
Don’t love me, because I am a tornado, a storm to chase until I’ve taken everything from you.
Don’t love me.
Someday, you will be married and happy, and I will
whirl back into your life like the hurricane that has never been named after me, and
you will believe that all your scars
and your broken heart
have healed enough that you can run with me.
But I have razors between my fingers and wedged in my teeth,
and your scabbed over heartstrings will be powerless against me.
I am an expert at running, at hurting, at ‘maybe’s.
Don’t love me.
When you ask me for something more,
I will tell you that I am not ready, because I never will be.
Chances scare me, and trusting someone so much will always be risky.
I will tell you that I am not in the right place for your Commitment,
for your future Heartbreak,
and you will tell me that you understand but you’ll stick with me,
and fire will consume everything.
Don’t love me.
I can’t even go a few years with a friendship before
burning it all for at least a few evenings, but we’ll always rebuild the
rickety ashes of the bridges we’ve passed.
Don’t love me.
I’m only saying it for your safety.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
We can only afford to contain our fires
Turning to... Soothsaying waters
Soothsaying rain, empty out your bottles
Irrigate from our heart puddles
Let flow into a singular well
An oasis where our hearts would kiss and silently tell
Submerge us as one being
The water milling and licking
Kissing our warm skins
Wash away as it purges and cleans
Cleansing waters, wash and give birth
Rid of the sadness to reveal the earth
Of this earth, you and I are one
Looking up to idolise the same sun
Wedged between... This expanse of redundant land
Pining for the mixing of our sands
We... We are made of the same
Earth, dirt and gravel placed in different games
Bearing similar stones that beat
Beating away the seconds that flit
Earth biding time... Stay on ground
Let wind take your souls to realms unbound
Casting our souls into the wind
Carved hearts on flags we pinned
Kites of love set to catch the air
Wind be kind... Carry us easy with care
Gift us your gentle airy fingers
As you would the sails of hopeful seafarers
Together we would dance and billow
Frolic upon your light feathered pillow
Ride the wind, on wings that never tire
Tiny bites that keep us afire
Never needing a flint to set alive the flame
Stoking the fire that burns on the same
Rhymes and reasons be our fuel
Combat logic and sense in a cerebral duel
Fight in our eyes, subdued are the blazes
Embers dormant behind glassy tearful gazes
Spark them to life with passionate heat
Fan them to rage till the time our hearts meet
But still... We must contain our fires
With nothing but soothsaying waters
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
Yes.
I wedged a comma between us.
But there was already an infinity stretching and you still haven't seen it.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
445
’Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms—
It had the Tassels on—
I thought how yellow it would look—
When Richard went to mill—
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red—Apples wedged
The Stubble’s joints between—
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in—
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father’d multiply the plates—
To make an even Sum—
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me—
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year—
Themself, should come to me—
3.7k
Some gulp,
others sip.
So much lovely variety
to the lip.
Many the blend,
together wedged -
some smoothe to the tongue,
others hard edged.
As we do differ -
so doth the taste.
Without that difference,
too much waste.
Variety rules!
Husband or wife,
water or whisky -
contrast is life.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
The steak tartare had painted toenails
And manicured hands of polished silk;
Mouth with apple, daintily wedged,
Floating in a bath of milk.
I helped myself to a silky ****
Sliced across it's still-pink grain,
Seasoned with a squirt of lemon
And coarse ground pepper, for a tang.
The seasoned broth was the finest gravy
To moisten the neat cuts of meat,
And sweetened fat, in a frothy pie
Ended the repast, with a treat.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be ****** once again.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
This sore saviour keeps a straight-faced stare
Lips pressed tight, tongue wedged in teeth
While watching indolence twist in haste
To reach the next refuge
Revulsion that we two symbols share
That same motion-sickness fear
One of action, the other of consequence
Or lack thereof; without / within
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
"I have gotten from there to here"
Its a simple tautology, chant it
either/or an uncertain accomplishment.
From there to there to there until there became here.
This too is fairly obvious,
but still, it seems so strange,
how many times must you be reminded
that you are too ill-equipped
to string the sequence.
And what about those weak suspicions
that reappear from time to time,
the ones you are
quick to disregard
out of the fear that you may be a lunatic.
What if they were correct, what
if a moment were nothing more
than a brown package
of stimulus.
They came to you, one after the other
and you what could you do but follow
them, like crumbs in a trail that lead
you further away from home
and into this carnival.
Where people who sing lullabies out loud
carry pistols and globs of color
are merging in all
directions.
Wedged in between "there to here"
and "here to there", the laws of tenses
never made this much of a difference.
Babies know this all too well.
That's why they're the last
ones
we turn to for wisdom.
But should they ever decide
to permanently stop crying.
You'll know what they mean by their silence.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
We wait at the same stop.
It's pouring, and we join the huddle of people
Keeping dry under the cold metal.
I expect her to get on one of the Arab bus lines,
Because she's an Arab.
That was racist and I smile to myself when
She gets on the 74 with me.
We end up jammed in the middle, standing face to face
In a sea of human waves, getting on, off, hustling.
There is an Ethiopian lady next to us with a baby strapped to her back.
I think the girl is wistful. I wonder if she's wondering about her future, like me.
Her makeup is better done than mine is and she looks sad.
I wonder what secrets lie beneath her elegantly obscured body.
I remember when I was Orthodox- we were parallel lines.
I sneak a look at her hijab. I wonder if she looks at my hair.
I notice two rings, a diamond and a gold, on her left hand.
She follows my gaze, twitches her fingers nervously and moves her hand.
I wonder how he treats her. Is she afraid of him? Is she sad?
She looks sad. I want to ask her what's wrong.
Does she speak Hebrew? Maybe. Probably not. Maybe.
I want to at least meet her eyes and smile,
So she knows someone noticed,
But my eyes flit and dart away every time I try,
And all I can see is the hate that's been wedged between us since the 20's.
She can't be much older than me, I think as she takes out an Iphone
In a bright pink case, a twin to the one I'd checked in its turquoise case
About 30 seconds ago. We get off at the same stop.
She waits for a transfer and I start walking to school.
I will never see her again, but I hope that maybe our future daughters
Will be able to smile at each other on a crowded bus, and maybe even be friends.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Ages pass
and
shells of resistance
shrivel up and die
leaving a fresh new chrysalis
resting in their place.
Like a shiny newborn baby
wiping the crust from its eyes
with tiny curled hands
fingernails as small as sand
and
love of life
has wedged its way
beyond all hints of
**** negativity
and
the only way forward
is found
before the sun even rises.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Insecticide.
Does anyone know where I can get some insecticide?
I need it, the sensation of that cold, sleek nozzle pushing inside me
My belly button will be heavens gate- inside are those **** butterflies...
Butterflies that tremble and quiver whenever you walk by.
That fragility is my enemy.
The only solace I can ever hope for, is in the desolation of such weakness.
My heart, it would often seem, is on a suicide mission.
So eager to climb up my throat and plunge into your twin pools of blue.
Those dastardly insects are fighting like hell,
Their wings the color of your lips-
The beat of their wings, a mockery of my own heartbeat.
I guess no one told them, their wings flutter for no one but me now
And I have had far enough of their nonsense.
Desires of a lonely heart are fantastical at best.
But nothing can argue with the cold steel of that nozzle
Wedged firmly inside, its mission realized.
And finally it's a feeling that I want to feel, not any of this involuntary ******** "falling in love".
Because I really can't help falling in love with you.
I'd stop it if I could. I'd throw the train from its rails, toss the plane from the sky, sink the ship out at sea.
To forget I ever loved you.
The flowers of June no longer hold that same color.
The bitter taste of the pest control will be the only taste on my tongue.
Not yours any longer, my dear.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I'll know it's love when I am wedged between a line of cars on a busy street in the middle of a commute
listening to the radio and thinking about what food I have leftover in my fridge
or what the weather's going to be like tomorrow
this is when I'll know.
it'll happen suddenly
randomly,
an earthquake in the center of my Tuesday
somewhat of a surprise
like walking through a haunted house knowingly
the shock is inevitable but expected
or it might hit me
like a lightning bolt on a day with a vacant sky
like a bus when I cross the intersection without looking
okay
maybe not that violently
maybe it will be subtle
like the moon's descent into crescent form over time
like the evolution of freckles on skin from sun
quiet in its arrival but still apparent
it could occur to me loudly
almost like a revelation
but more like an understanding that has been building for months
growing inside this body of mine
I often bury feelings in my stomach
feeding them subconsciously until they become too full to cover with ease
love will come to me like a secret I have been hiding for weeks
pouring out like a confession I never wanted to give
I like to say that falling hard is a habit I've overcome by now
but I would be lying if I did
To say
that love makes itself known visibly
from the exact minute we meet someone
is not exact truth
but you'll know when it does
creeping out strategically into your routine,
love will settle in your bone marrow until it has formed into a disease
see I'll know it's love
when I go to search my wallet for parking meter change and I only find your name
when the empty in my bed grows too big for just my body
when every ring a cellphone hums reminds me of your laugh
when the onset of cold makes me miss the comfort of your holding
when I start to wonder what a life never knowing you would be like
when I can't remember how I ever survived on this earth without you
I'll know it then
and I'm not sure when that will be
It could be the last thing I think of as I fall sleep
or at 3:47 in the morning
I can't promise I'll be ready
or that I'll be waiting patient
love will come to me like a fear I've been afraid to say admit I have
but I will tackle it head on
welcoming with open arms
say hey, what's up, hello
I've got this
it might not be obvious
but I have been practicing my entire life
for this exact moment
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
I tried to tint my hair red to light this night
But it is dull and stringing out amidst my plant-stained fingers
I tried to dissolve away the lines upon my skin to glow with luminosity
But they are wedged deep and have left gouges of pin-pricks behind
I tried to exhume the dead and the dry from my face to better breathe
But instead it filmed over stinging and suffocates
I tried to forget you in order to be free of this
But I am not cleaned of you so easily.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
like chicken in tomato soup lain still,
one arm protruding off the bathtub's edge,
red water steaming, still at edge, none spilled,
and 'neath her chin a pill-less bottle wedged,
her forehead, raven hair, an island forest,
in a sea of calmness sought and found,
a chaos turned to peace, its calm attests,
now what has sunk beneath will meet the ground,
and as the soup's released into the drain,
her paleness, wrist cut red, and kitchen knife,
exposed to all, her face relieved of pain,
yet not enjoyed, devoid of sensing life,
that torment, plagued her soul with agony,
now transferred to her grieving family
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC