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By Lyn Lifshin always women in the dark on porches talking as if in blackness their secrets would be safe. Cigarettes glowed like Indian paintbrush. Water slapped the deck. Night flowers full of things with wings, something you almost feel like the fingers of a boy moving, as if by accident, under sheer nylon and felt in the dark movie house as the chase gets louder, there and not there, something miscarried that maybe never was. The mothers whispered about a knife, blood. Then, they were laughing the way you sail out of a dark movie theater into wild light as if no thing that happened happened © Copyright 2004, Lyn Lifshin, All Rights Reserved. |
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Document last modified on: 09/28/2004