Cleaning Day

By: Olivia Mott ’12, Editor-in-Chief

The clothing line out front of her house,
where the sun bleeds
into her blouses,

presses thin fingers down,
holding the page open
where I wrote
in her diary

about the day we spent
meeting at the coffee shop
not remembering the difference
between the impressionists and the
romantics, because every time

I think of all those little dots,
I see freckles and fall in

and there are my
collared shirts swinging in the
breeze and bleeding reds and
yellows and thick sparks of sunlight.

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