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Best time 

to fall in love is at 16, right after feeding 
the chickens in rubber boots with thick shit 
on the soles. Best time to unbutton
your first pair of boy’s Levis
is after a crunchy Honeycrisp 
and a slice of Gruyere—your hips open
like a salad bowl. Each vertebrae
of the zipper is a bet that God is busy
with better sinners. I don’t make the rules, 
okay. Best time to buy a bra
is right before the moon finishes 
milking itself, and best time to break
is after black coffee and raisins. 


That one time I fell 
in love on the 401

Hellish on a Jeep, she is.
Long face, like a slivered
almond. Two times 
she looks to the left 
before flicking her signal
and roaring past me
like a bitch slap. Her body 
odour, rich like a medjool 
date, follows me. I drive. 


Things we’ve made

a little life, and your late uncle’s stew
that tastes more like red 
wine than beef. We’ve made our neighbours 
rage on Friday nights coming home 
from the bar with tongues
as thick as Jesus and thighs splitting
at the seam. Mostly, we’ve made blue
turn orange and black turn gold
and that’s a lot more than anyone
else can say.

 

 


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