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P
o
e
m
s

I was fifteen. My father and I stood
at the basement threshold, shouting
at each other, maybe the only time.
Go, he told me. Just get out. Holding
open the white door. And I left,

like I’d left other afternoons, slipping
that house over my head in the slow
dream anger can be. Ran down
the drive, deaf from the blood traffic
of my heartbeat, past the azaleas,

down the bike path, until I had to
stop to breathe. Just then I thought
I heard my name, my brother calling
from our backyard. And I turned
back. Got home. No one was calling.