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High School Graduation

High School Graduation


Another goodbye sharpens my teeth
a sea in my throat, ready
for a dry silence.
He’s sitting at the back of the hall,
with paint on his jeans,
jazz in his voice and lips stained
from too much summer
he’s living in sin, he keeps
his girl in a locket and borrows
her skin. He’s thinking of her
and I can’t talk to him.
I look everywhere
except his face. The scars
on my legs. A sunset
between each breath.
His orange shirt.
The years nursed like a fallen bird.
I’m saying something,
but the hall is loud,

and he’s too hungover
to hear it. Love spilling
from my skin like morning rain.
Hands closing on air,
on fisted fabric
he speaks, and instead
of “Hannah, I’m sorry” I hear
“feel free to leave.”
Somewhere a sailor
kneels to kiss foreign soil.
somewhere a car crash is repeating
Over and over. But I am here.
His name calling out
from every corner of the sky.
A happy song playing on the speakers.
I don’t stay for the chorus.
Tripping over the doorstep
on my way out, dragging this town
and its dust behind me,
walking to the train

through streets coiling
like question marks
a mouthful of sky,
and loose change rattling
in my pockets. The cracks
in the sidewalk are jagged smiles.
The heat wave isn’t over yet,
and the train takes two hours
to arrive.

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