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AR #52/53 Cover: Crave/Coven by Charles Badland
number 54

P O E T R Y
by Sonja Livingston

Seneca Falls
for Preston Richardson

We drive, or I drive, I should say -
For the first time in four months together, I take the wheel,
Push past the Amish store, pass the place where Lucretia and her girls
Did their thing and I say brick houses should have proper
Roofs and why declare their sentiments here and
Songs from the Italian station get inside of me and I drive fast,
Talk loud about the 19th amendment and buona fortuna and why suffrage sounds like suffer
And how Lucy remained a Stone and gira e gira and vola, vola, vola and
Did you know zingaro is Italian for gypsy;
Dolce is sweet, luna: moon, sangue: blood.
Then I see
This music, my driving make you frantic so
I park in the Knights of Columbus lot, push my tongue into your mouth
'Til you taste the overripe-plum/fish-stew/wet-earth of me,
'Til rain beads on my windshield like bathwater on oiled skin
'Til you untangle your tongue and use it to inquire about the condition
Of my wiper blades. And I think it right somehow that things go quiet on Sackett Street,
Named for the Honorable Gary V. whose level-headed judgement flavored this place
More than Cady Stanton and fistfuls of Sicilian fishermen ever did.
Later we'll join without the glue of wine or music
And when the wet-dry, everything-nothing moment passes -
We'll become wagon wheels on a prairie of white sheet, you thinking all-weather,
Super-gauge rubber blades, me mouthing the Italian word for stone.

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