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X IS FOR XANAX
You gather
in ringlets.
The teen in
the falafel truck sees
the coil
of your tattoo.
Your spine seduces
like rain
you show his sister
your muscle
your mountains
you shine
categorical teeth.
The teen
in the falafel truck,
you think,
is a teen who
has seen women by
the pool.
You walk toward
him
in new sun
you ask
why he is
late.
With your face open
you ask
about favors.
The teen
in the falafel truck
is silent.
You sing
to him.
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