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Jehanne Dubrow

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by this poet

He kisses me before he goes. While I,
still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face

against the sueded surface of the sheets,
thinking it’s him I touch, his skin beneath

my hands, my body curving in to meet
his body there. I never hear him leave.

But I believe he shuts the bedroom door,
as though unsure if


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Squint a little, and that’s my husband
in the photograph, the sailor on the left—

the one wearing a rose composed of ink
and the Little Bo Peep who stands

before a tiny setting sun and the blur
on his forearm which might be a boat—

while the sailor on the right is leaning in,