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As she rolls backwards,
the telephone cord
wiggles between her
legs. Her tone is smooth:
“I swear we should tie

the knot, I swear it.”
My eyeballs are penned.
I follow the curve
of her back onto
a worn mound of clothes.
A bra dots it, a

snow capped peak. A vague
image, a faceless
phony brushed my
eyes. Her — yet NOT her.
I’m hung up in her
lacy brassiere. Cords

and wires hook me
up. I will not peel
this peak. I will not
right this voice. I will
not draw with these lines.

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