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Were promised to me in the secret language
of if only. I had a falling
asleep of us in that space where we exist
best, all pear
orchards and humid cafes. We wandered
miles of cotton ocean, deltas
of all the traditions we made smirking eyes
at, fingered the clumsy
phrases we used to undress our nerves, toyed
with bodies hedged in poinsettia.
Stare at a bleeding: notice the shape
and the beauty, the hue of its petals
and all it evokes in my memories. Pull it
from the ground and hold it
close to you. Evoke for a second the smell
of my hair and close your eyes:
remember the bullish whisper of your awe
at the minotaur we built between us.
Kate Jenkins’s poems have appeared in Fawlt, Midwestern Gothic, and Barn Owl Review. She holds an MFA from Columbia University.
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