What collects in the cheekJill 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.
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