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The Scrambler

the pear, swollen
with rain

not the sharp scent,
sweat of wild apricot

but floating ghost trees,
boughs in the distance

the night’s darlings.

Snow that hovers
at the edge,

your memory

each day, pale
green camouflages
branches, a lace
birds soon
could nest in.
Only the late
maple’s bare,
Christmas lights
dangling. Some
where the beaver
is plotting, geese
nest in tall grass.
Think of 3 things
to be happy for
he said, I’ll
call at noon
to check

They’re like wanting to
keep a man, keep one
on ice for sometime
later, there like a dress
3 sizes too small I know
I’ll slide into. Hell, I
could wear it now and
let it hug my ass so tight
you’ll want to tear if
off me. In two houses:
boots under the bed,  S
& M boots one English
professor called them,
boots that tilt my pelvis
forward, toward you. I
want to strut thru Dupont
Circle, black boots a
dominatrix might wear,
stab heels you’d have to
be afraid of me in. My
mother wore spike heels
into her 70’s, up Beacon
Hill and over at least one
man’s heard who still
saw her as twenty. When
I’ll put those boots on
you’ll never believe I was
not always in shape. I’ll
out strut any Barbarella
or Barbie. Men in cars
will run into each other,
the legs the last thing to go
and I’m not ready yet
for any one way ticket
*Lyn Lifshin lives in Virginia.
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