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 by Lydia Moyer


I remember the sound of generators running

The faucet dry

The blackest night

sweat-tangled sheets

camping on pillow ground

I read with a headlamp on.


I remember the sound of the wind climbing the hollow

before the trees began to sway


I packed for one day and stayed for five

Living off borrowed energy

I remember your summer kitchen

(a toaster in the hallway)

The trap-trapping of the air conditioner

How it drowned out the birds

I remember you coming back with a bike

That couldn’t hold its gear


And I remember going home

jumping into the pond still dressed

riding damp in the back of a pickup

the fireflies like tiny beacons

And the hum of the refrigerator

when the electricity came back on.


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