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Her brow hangs low today, a shelf above the dark blue pools of her eyes and the straight-razor of her lips. And so when I see her emerge from the bedroom, severe pink bathrobe, arms crossed on her chest, her slipper-padded footsteps thudding the off-white shag dating back to another generation, the one we had displaced from this domicile perhaps prematurely, when I see her thus, I sink. And yet, we never got around to shedding it, the off-white shag, even though it made our nostrils flare when we stood still and considered it. To what do I owe my current guilt, which also strangely perfumes the air when I think upon it? Have I stepped in dog doo-doo yet again or left the can lid up unceremoniously? I agree I am egregious. I agree I may never find the vehicle with which to improve or redeem myself, and yet I push on. Don’t you admire this at least, my relentlessness? Don’t look at me like that. Her voice slices me in half.
Salvatore Difalco's work has recently appeared in RHINO Poetry, Third Wednesday, and Heavy Feather Review. He lives in Toronto.
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