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He said
I still find the small things.
The rest is gone, the ghosts
in the closet wearing her perfume.
All that.
Now it’s just this leftover universe
that fits between the finger and thumb.
This morning
I picked up a hair from the table.
I find stray buttons under the cushions,
chewed pencils, gum wrappers,
that damn earring that pierced my heel.
I don’t get their intent,
those mementos that conspire
when to come into my present,
crouching in the carpet
waiting to rear up and stab.
Or suspend with abandon
then light down
next to my breakfast.
So I did what I had to do. I laid down my fork.
I made a wish and blew it into the air.
That’s what we did
when we found each other’s hair.
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Marcia McCusker lives in Phoenix, Arizona. She is co-founder of the Young Adult Writing Project at Arizona State University, a summer writing workshop for high school students. Presently Marcia facilitates poetry and memoir workshops for children between the ages of seven and eighty.
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