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It rained for 40 days and 40 nights. I carved alphabet soup into your back until it was the color of smashed pomegranates. We hit each other to the sound of a distant foghorn, expecting a swarm of locusts to fly out from our insides, giving us something new to eat. They don’t. Just muck & dust & old trophies. Instead I think about how I’ve stopped hearing boats pass by splashing water on our window. |