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My writing

Evening

You out there
sitting in the chill black grass
just beyond the yellow fall of light from the kitchen window

You know I’m watching
wondering if the evening dew has soaked through
your shorts yet, and if I should
call you in

But your eyes are fixed upwards, watching the last pale blue light fade
single stars winking back at you
When you were small, so small
you asked if you could collect them, and keep them
for when you needed them in the night
You’re still small, to me
But no longer afraid of the darkness
that creeps in around you
The arch of your throat gleams white

I think about mosquitos

I think about your bare feet

I put a washed dish into the rack
and notice the skin on my hands is wrinkled
from too much time in the water.

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About writehandedgirl

Sarah is a writer who is passionate about social justice, feminism, politics, and cats. She is a columnist and poet and currently lives in Nelson. You can follow Sarah on Twitter (@writehandedgirl) or read more of her writing at writehanded.org

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