Jill Khoury

J i l l   K h o u r y

Justin, Post-Storm

When he bends down in the street to lace up my boot, I want to give him my ring. Something one would do for a child : he does for me, this thing. Inadvertently kneels in a puddle. His smile in the streetlight sears me. My lungs feel water-heavy, flattened. I inhale to speak, swallow a mouthful of gnats.

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