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Love Letter Lingering Inside a Semi-Historical Room

Dear Confederate Docent, What do we do with all the spare southern scenery? The ice cream and incest. The peach and its shadow. It’s August on your skin, but tell me again about the men in that cornfield, the ones belly-crawling between sheets of sunshine and smoke. I’ve never held a gun, but when I let the muzzle of my trigger finger graze your almond-colored wrist, I start praying for the secession of your habitual hem, imagining the sounds of our union. What more can I imply? My fisted heart keeps pounding, but the rain-strange windows of this semi-historical room were painted shut in 1923. One steeple north of your lavender dress, my grandmother married an undertaker from Blacksburg. It rained for seven nights. The cornfield became a shallow sea he ferried her across: Frederick carrying Dorothy. A mouthful of sky. The thorn you kiss goodnight. The kind of prayer you bury beneath the rose bush. They are the bodies between these churches. We are the stain upon the glass.
Posted 05/09/12
Handsome, Vol. 4, No. 1
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