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by natalie tombasco

sometimes i’m so extra   so shoulder pads

       so ten-dollar words accumulating in the sky

but my bad, bitch         baroque doesn’t suit

        today’s weather of plain white t-directness:

in less than a week we move     south & so

        i’ve said the goodbyes, packed feelings into boxes

cloaked myself        in the last roll of bubble wrap

        to be carried out & away & i’m unsure how

i’ll manage     without the seasonal moods i’ve grown

        to rely on. florida will do you some good. all that humidity

& vitamin-c      although the taste of cantaloupe

        makes absolutely no sense. due to earth’s heating

by 2050       london will feel more like barcelona

        & seattle will feel like san francisco

& the real question is    where does that depression go?

        does it migrate north with honking v’s of geese?

i’ve listened to other girls:     mercury’s in retrograde

        & turquoise is an emotion & ugh bring me baaack

but i’ve read the farmer’s almanac   i’m on the outs

        with change, eating a soul-destroying meal—

twinkies, register fruit—at a gas station, in a golden hour

        that is well-intentioned     now is the time

to reflect, to think what we desire most:

        a cool linen vernacular or this old bitter girl

who lives in the blueish grasp

        between winter    & more winter.

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