megan pastore
I wonder, if within that moment, the moment of betrayal began, Blue Marsh on a mellow June day, fake lake and in faker joy we played with synthetic water, my mother never entered—when she was a child, her uncle threw her into a pool, forced her to swim, she became turned around, nearly drowned, never did learn her way to the surface—my cousin floated on her back, through squinted eyes I watched goldenrod bounce off the surface around her—a million minnows wanting to be her—a weightless, effortless starfish, fish between my legs, or so my nine year old body thought, or hoped, my own heart a smallmouth bass on the shore, gasping for whatever I was before I saw the strange man standing too close for such a large fake lake, false hope fleeting, he turned his head and casually walked away as if searching for something on the opposite shore, something that wasn’t my small, lanky body, toes now gripping every goddamn grain of sand, muscles hardened, hips clenched, my own two fingers holding the spot I was told was wrong to touch, I gained my bearings, and staggered back to the shore.
LeBaron windows
Down, winded face, tousled hair
Car full of secrets
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