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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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