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October comes with such brittle
light, the sky
a blown-glass bulb. I sprint
the switchbacks of Knox Mountain.
Across the lake, the hillsides are nothing
but matchsticks after last year’s fire,
inferno. My thighs
don’t know how to hurt anymore.
I work them too hard, too often. I run
down one ridgeline and up another.
I run scalding baths. I run
the day’s itinerary on repeat.
I want to drink
Okanagan champaign
on the balcony with the man
I’m dreaming of, watching
the sun sizzle down
behind that other ridgeline.
Flip the bedroom light switch
on and off. Everything
cools and bitters this time of year.
And then, I want to be cocooned
from all this
in my ex-husband’s bed. |
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