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Longing

 

It wasn't your normal now-the-guests-are-leaving goodbye hug—two bodies leaning in at oblique angles, patting each other awkwardly on the shoulder. No, this was a grab-you-hard-and-pull-you-close-really-close embrace, the kind that leaves you thinking, long after the party, about a man you barely knew with a rasp in his voice and Titian-colored hair.

deep winter
I hold a pomegranate seed
to the light

 

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Harriot West, Frogpond 32:2; Contemporary Haibun 2011.

 

 

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