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Pacific Time by Sharon Jan

You were two and three and

four and five in this room.

When the window stretched

dark from floor to ceiling gleamed

against the yellowed light of the lamp,

your mother would come in

run her cool fingers

through your still-damp hair.

Then she would do the same thing

with your brother, who lay on a bed

pushed up next to yours, so that

when he slept with shadows

on his lids, face close enough

to put your cheeks on the crack between the two beds

large like two nations

you could imagine

your hearts in the same place.



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