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Second Honeymoon

Anne Boyer

I was a such a square, but Johnny
named his own horse Trigger.

No saddle. "Hold the mane.
He's broken. I swear it."

The gondolier jetted us to the Torrid
Gulf for crater baiting. Lunik II

played coy. In 1959 we petted.
In 1960 he dared me ride that horse.

By the Sea of Fecundity, I read
his hand: under the mound of Mars

paint and thinner, three small animals,
a faintness of math. The shape

of romance then dauntingly spherical.
Now the satellite tickers with arthritis and math.

No one goes back to Lunarica.
Johnny grills up our stallion with salt.

Anne Boyer

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