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By Anthony Liccione

the time,
taking a bite
from the twist-warm
loaf of bread,
that you say
to have kneaded
with hot-oiled fingers
throbbing knots of dough
from the tight muscles
of my back.

nor the, I did-laying out
a fork and knife
crisscross across
the plate of loose peas
and pork,

don’t remember
the name,
shoestring or song;
stumbling into
your cleavage cut
like a milky half-moon;
the v-button down shirt
or the quarter
pink of nipple
that would slip out
in each turn or dip we did,
our movements
reflecting off
the chandelier of wine
glasses,
as we spun around
the dining room
linoleum.

this is all vague
as the
childhood coat
that shielded me
from the left side world
of my father’s fist
that sprung up
each time the liquor
went down.

don’t recall
the us or them,
nor we
at the bar or park
twelve-gauging
through an alley
to Sally’s Tavern,
and pleading in
my vomit,
the violin
in quartet
brandishing to
Lucifer’s sin
with admiration,

all this heresy
I say,
is plainly
a run-around.
Still, you tell me
after all these months
that its all true,

knocking on my door
for money;
for the child peering
up at me through
the kneecaps
of your legs.
his tender brown
eyes,
that can be seen
searching for a
father.

but I shut the door
like electricity
suddenly cut off:
the lights
the tv
the microwave
the computer,
sounds of life
sitting in the edge
of darkness

with an overdue
bill
that waits to be
paid,

but I don’t pay it.

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