by Leah Bigbee

Published in Issue No. 189 ~ February, 2013

Modal rhythm

bleats at this wood

pace, crushing

against our



The azaleas glare

on our foreheads.

Sun spots on yours.

Your eyebrows


on my face.

Genetic matrix

clots our throats

while we sweat.


That bandana

soaked in your


year old fist.


Six pairs of

thick glasses

in your desk.

Saturday morning,

the choked gait

and road silence,

we go, go, go —

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L. M. Bigbee lives in Birmingham, Alabama.