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Image for the poem Phoebe

Phoebe

You mustn’t forget the black Mary Janes.
The handsprings and the cat-shaped clocks.
My restless blond hair braided neat and tight
but that watery emptiness in my eyes.
We watch the seamen with their gray beards
while caramel leaks from our pink-stained
mouths. My angry white knuckles
as I fist the folds of my blue dress.
Our clapboard house leaning from neglect,
its shelves after shelves of geisha dolls.
When it happens we’ll taste
of maraschino and molasses.
Of glass milk bottles
and purple pogo sticks.
Afterwards we’ll crouch in the corner,
our toes numb, shivering.
Our little brains wondering
in an odd sort of detachment
what this might do
to the rest of our lives.
Written by toniscales (Lost Girl)
Published
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