In ripe August
the heavy air curling like briar roses
delivers the rotting sweetness of
bird-pecked plums,
their shiny skins split and bleeding nectar
onto the grass.
I consented on that morning to wash your hair,
to take out the wire bristle curlers
and balance the back of your neck on the
cold porcelain sink,
to make you as beautiful as the amnesiac
on the television.
Afterwards,
your face streaked and wet
beneath a lambswool permanent,
I stood behind your chair in the doorway
inhaling the late summer odor
of an old woman's perfume,
pulling smokey strands around wire curlers
while you talked about the day
you met him in the pasture with
teacakes and cold water,
of walking, walking, and walking until your feet swelled
tender and red as plums.
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