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Finalist, 2015

Cultural Weekly Poetry Contest


“Do that again,” he said,
then waited
for me to fall
into him,
air too thick for speed,
me bending
to answer him
while the woman to my left,
a bleached-celluloid whiteness,
receded beyond the horizon,
past the point of regret
or reconsideration.

The sunlit room was hot,
my lips dropping to his,
wanting that second kiss.

A pylon at the Santa Monica pier
traversed the Pacific and wrapped 
around a wave 
breaking on Waimea Bay,
while his lips,
smooth as Velveeta cheese,
waited for
my lips on his.
In the time it took me
to bend over
and fall in,

a monarch butterfly,
setting out from Santa Cruz
made it, 
to the Mexican 

© 2015 Lisa Segal

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