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What collects in the cheek

Jill Beauchesne

I am jealous of the old man’s wife.
I sit in the used bed
of the pickup
beside pieces of lime
and plastic cup.
We settle down, starfish shapes,
hawking branches, tying fire.
I tease her outright with the match.
I singe
my arm hair,
the tailpipe coughs
and bumps the fault.
She leans away,
faces the woods.
The turncoat larch,
once burden, now prize.
Next morning, I’ll cover
this route on foot, bruising
off some terrible sunrise.
The light hits the creek, eye-polish
and no rain.

Jill Beauchesne

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