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You walk by a woman stooping in her front yard
and don’t see her.
A mother, generic, she is pulling up weeds
while speaking patiently to a child.
If you’d seen this woman last night, you’d know:
she was in bloom, her hips had it all,
her legs were earthquakes on the dance floor.
If you were seeing her now
you’d know: her powerful arms
lift out loads of yellow sourgrass,
her voice spins a shield around the child.
You round the corner, slender hip swaying,
and don’t see
how the woman rises to her feet,
kicks lavender buds from her sandals,
watches you disappear.
You Walk By
Not Even Playing
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