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I grew up with pickles. I slept in

the attic (cigarettes, sheets laced with

smoke). The heat of my father’s

brother’s old room. Larry Blackmon

painted for effect & Chaka Khan’s lips

more like a kiss if a kiss could walk

when it came to life. If a kiss

could have hips & legs & ass—

well, I wanted that.

& if the colors could sweat & strip

me down to my slip, well,

I wanted that, too. Nobody knew

what I was thinking up there.

Though, maybe, they wanted that. That.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Published in Poems Yona Harvey

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.