gray skies, purple skirt.A Poem by h d e rushinI mean, the last time I really dated someone; when everyone exploded for "Hogan's Heroes" and the gland beneath my fathers throat bulged loose. And the delusional moonflowers who think of old wars like brides they tore lymph nodes from and beat before they loaded him in the Ford station wagon with the wood grained dashboard for dialysis in those days before he died. No sun ever rose over Dachau. And over Auschwitz the make shift, unsustainable apportioning of representative rays bore down on bloody crushed backs. No one wore a purple skirt.
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