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One Summer Night

Heather Dyer



He came home
one summer night--
and the air was thick
and heavy
and I called him “Daddy”
and his breath
was whiskey-death.

He staggered in
and my ribcage tore open.

And as I scuttle
under the piano,
the rug
against my leg
feels like
his beard-stubble
once did on my
lips--

when I still liked to kiss him--

and when he still wanted me to.

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