These afternoons have
a certain sway. From the angle
of her neck since dad's tilted the tv
on the mantle, to the arguments.
Some peanut shells
broken, crumbs in the grain
of the table; my palms
spread, shaking the salt off
and the question strung between
the chewing, like a nerve. Sometimes
I tell her, I can't leave. And she'll
slant her head, say, You can. And we
sit there, creaking. Rubber swings.













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