Blue Moon

Blue Moon


Always the summer of ’67, always, you

would remind me of the day of my arrival and the night of booming festivities;

the lanterns hung up on wooden bamboo posts, the wired lights in their suspended

grace – going down and going up, as if wanting to be reached – and the bulbs

in their alternate glow. I was but an unfamiliar face

in a sheath dress that went a few inches down my knees,

and a bob.

You were there and then you were there–

when my hair had laid down and my dress was just a dress.

On booming nights and fights, again and again, you

would walk up to me, and tell me: this was how it played and

you saw me standing alone


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