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This as a Parting

P.F. Potvin

She can't think about him without the postcard of Neruda's livingroom. In the foreground
next to a purple pillar, the wooden horse that escaped a merry-go rears with pole still in
chest, its eyes scanning the cruiseflecked seaside. There's a chair to the right, backed to
the open window where she imagines him, reaching in the light to settle the pony. Maybe
she should have given him this as a parting gift. Instead she flew here, bought and sent a
tiny trampoline home for his heart to get tough on.

P.F. Potvin

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