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Sunday Mornings
By Aimee Stoddard

She wanted him now only when she had to:
Sunday mornings sometimes.
She thought of his rolls on his skinny stomach
and his bursted red veins
and coarse white hairs
and yellow stained teeth:
Too many mugs of coffee.
She feigned headaches and backaches
and told him it was that time of month
Again.
He always turned his back and thought
of her fine soft hair
and stared at the shadows the covers made:
Billowing ghosts dancing stationary with one another.




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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

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