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Soft Hands & Lighthouses

Julieanne Larick

dear, do you remember our

apartment in montpelier?

the one dipped in

perpetual autumn,

a dingy blood moon canopy

with the turkey-stuffed patchwork couch,

bloated and sinking with fake feathers, the ones i stuck up your nose

and made you sneeze ten times.

do you recall the room

with the smooth oak chairs,

carved with soft hands at the friday flea market

from the lavender lady with the rough smile that winked at our long fingers, locked and laced,

long ago on that september afternoon, love-making by the window i pretended was a lighthouse

by the atlantic,

winking away as the diamond-encrusted daydream rose and sunk like the peach-moon. dear, i

long for the oven-roasted evenings tucked under thrifted quilts we soon lost

toasting for nights we later made up.

Julieanne Larick is a Midwestern Best of the Net-nominated poet. She studies English and Environmental Science at The College of Wooster. Julieanne reads prose for GASHER Journal. She has poems published in perhappened mag, Blue Marble Review, NECTAR Poetry, and others. Her portfolio is and her Twitter is @crookyshanks. 

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