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The Green Slime bucket read: gooey, drippy,
oozy, cold n’ clammy. It’s where you hid
all your Boogity Brown. Your mom forbid
you from seeing me, but after high tea,
after kisses, after school we’d sneak down
to the playground to loiter and giggle.
Adults, with their divorce and post-coital
despair, were odd things. I could hear you frown
over the phone after one more lecture
over what good girls don’t do. Cicadas
were just stirring in the bent magnolias.
You stirred, too; back in our skunk heat rapture.
Back when I was your strange, little squeeze toy
and you were my roaring girl, my tomboy.