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Carly Sachs

That afternoon, which one, was it Cleveland?

You held them all, careful as you are

with eggs, you’re getting older,

but in the snow globe of your heart,

it’s always Tuesday.

There’s the cottage you will never enter,

The sword you will never draw.

What honeymoon is this on your dresser?

Plastic desire, promise

of change. Every time you shake it—

go back to that highway rest stop or

souvenir shop, memory’s darling,

yes, you had to have it,

the glitter settling like ash.

Go ahead, just try and break it open.

Carly Sachs

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