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Matt & Lucy.

are honeymooning in Italy. We are honeymooning in South Bend. Honeymoons are a beginning. This is the beginning of our life without bugs. This is the time when you sit on the couch & try not to get all psychosomatic about it, you say. I say I wanna. I wanna pick at your legs. The spots on your legs. Because of the bugs. I am afraid they followed us. These bugs are like Matt & Lucy. They seem so relaxed. Bloody Mary's on the beach except I am both the blood & the beach & now my nails are bitten to nubs, poor coastline, a shallow shore. Build yourselves a castle to the sky. I can tell from my fingertips that I am humming--I cannot hear music. Because of the bugs. There were never any bugs, you say. Your voice is a cloud of dust. I see this now. Your whole body: dust. You are a dust bunny. You have to be some kind of record. You were always just an ordinary-sized man: you must be well beyond the average for dust bunnies. This explains your imperviousness to the lice everybody else got as a kid. Also your fear of the vacuum. My chronic sniffles & conjunctivitis & you are the residue of an illusion. I feel much less creepy. Carrying this urn.

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Author:Stockdale, Jennifer
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jan 1, 2011
Words:251
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