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Call it saving face —

all that time I spent

pumping oxytocin

when I should have sprayed mace

I can’t share with you,

unless nebulous tales

of gashed receding sails

qualify as true.

No one wants to hear

Not until now have I

fallen and been caught by

such wide arms. But we’re

(call it safe to bet)

not in any hurry;

every last sob story

will sail from these lips yet.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Poems Rachel Wetzsteon

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