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When did you come

to this conclusion? Rectified

in the backroom, with basement bargain deals:

did her dresses drip


through your tongue, commentary milky

and fresh? Swimming, as she did, in a blood-sea

of polka-dots, and oceans of trim, moldy

tones, sky-slop, shades difficult to name—and up against

some slanted olive stripes, almost charming, like high

school pick-up lines.


Was the stick-

er orange, or written in permanent

ink: a sinking

bluish black, slightly

bleeding around the edges—subtly pungent

like a concocted drench of middle school locker rooms and

aunt Erma’s oatmeal-raisin attic cookies, smelling sweet

but tasting, sharp, of mothballs


—75 percentoff?

(Because no one

would ever


buy it


otherwise.) Was she alone

in her disbelief? Or was her mother there

insisting, of course, upon grandbabies already? And Oh,

yes, he’s right: green is your color. 


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