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By John Davis

That day our names didn’t rhyme

     with anything. The world, all blue,

          flashed black for two minutes, eclipsed

               the norms of nature. Birds stopped chirping.

          Death was smooth-edged, then it lived.

     Dew wanted to renew itself on the Buick’s windshield, 

and the inverted wind began to

     whip from the sudden temperature shift.

          Night was all night. Then day

               erased the stars. Your dream just

          started, then departed, buried in a landfill 

     with dreams of rain showers, ice cream 

afternoons, anything cool. Then heat.

     That day like any summer day 

          your best friend prayed for you

               but, like a substitute, hoped the darkness

          would take you so he could step 

     in and take your lover’s hand.

John Davis is a polio survivor and the author of Gigs and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.

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