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Jennifer Dick 
for J.B.
Dusk before us, red and swollen. Your scraped ankle, my wrist against your thigh in the car. You drove upwards, leaving a past that wasn´t ours, hieroglyph-like etchings, clay walls, chipped shards of pottery. I picked a small, dried leaf from your brown hair, let it sail beyond the window. We would take nothing with us. Your sketches only a grey blur, so unlike the red earth, the strange angle of tree fallen to later become an oval key, orange and blue, yellow and green, peering out from each of the paintings you´d do. Unrecognized. But then, as the car groaned against your insistent foot, I closed my eyes, tracing a map along the inside of your thigh, some memory or labyrinth winding back to where these people, too, lay together in the night, pressing their warm flesh one against the other in the cold.
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