By Angela Papalas

Green pears ripen in the quiet kitchen.
The moon looks in on me; we're old friends:
a husk and an empty lantern. After my bath,
I stand listening in the hall outside your bedroom
and I can hear your smooth movements in the dark,
your legs lengthening with the lines in my face.
A draft raises the fine hair on my arm, still wet.
I drink the cool air and I shrivel.

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