September 2010
5 posts
Dear
Southern-lipped women hold coffee cans and spit dark brown into them. They grow up looking out from a field that smells like horse manure and fresh grass. A sweet smell that thickens like syrup in the summertime.
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Dear
I remember three years ago. We sat outside for three hours and read aloud Neruda love poems. Your accent was thick and heavy and lonely. I read them...
