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By Breia Gore

It’s a dying breed-starving and swollen passion
hidden in Tahiti, hooking up with many curvy women who only wash down a touch
with a dirty scotch.
Passion washed up on the sidewalk on church mornings, white hymns above four white walls and your pastor’s white robes have seen Tahiti- he can barely remember it, it was before Jesus had found him on the white sand.

There is nothing for you to swallow whole,
malnourished art form.
Leaving the window open for something to come in.
You can hear the children playing across the street; red rover, hopscotch.
It’s all just an opening to leap into.
Jumping outside for
feet to hit inside each sidewalk-chalked box.
The rain will just wash it off and the mother will yell at the kids
to hurry inside before it gets rough.
A lake of primaries heading towards the sewer.    

1 comment

  1. there is something about your writing that gets me to feel something Breia, beautiful work !!!