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Polaroid: Links.

 Knock-kneed, bucktoothed, I stand with a small golf bag slung
 over my shoulder, my 96
ROCK hat pulled low, shielding
the bright Florida sun. I am seven, out with my dad
chasing this small white ball up and down the fairway
while he hits mulligans, calibrates his swing. He wants me to be
the next Nancy Lopez. I just want to spend time with him, would never
actually say I don't like playing, watching, talking about it
for hours on end. All too soon, his handicap
 won't refer
to his game but to the night my mother found him on the floor,
the aftermath, the constant tallying of the effort it takes
to get from one hazard to the next. My father is away,
furthest from the hole, choosing between iron and wood. 
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Author:Brown, Stacey Lynn
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2015
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