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I have given all of you        a house        at the end        of a dead-end street.

The front door hangs half open


It’s been kicked in before,

something slimy, shiny coats your yellowed walls, sorry about that


A house has many rooms but the only one I’ll unlock today is painted green,

Demeyer park green.


Green like the canal we dipped our toes into

then our ankles and knees and thighs and the bottoms of our shirts even


Your room is damp with that putrid water,

clinging to the skin like sweat does.


Smelling like summer’s swollen bliss,

sun-warmed. there are children


playing somewhere around here, I can hear their laughter out the window

but we are far away from them

getting farther and farther away still


as this canal water, this thick church lot asphalt, this blood-soaked ,tears-strung

quick-sand sinks above our shoulders

and the smell of summer is forgotten and replaced by the salt of you.

MEGAN ARCHIBEQUE (she/her) hopes to one day write something in every genre. Now based in Chicago, she graduated from Boise State University with a BFA in creative writing. Often exploring fantasy, queerness, femininity and escaping a hometown in her writing, she loves oversharing online and dancing as often as she can. She has been previously published in The Disappointed Housewife, Spaceports and Spidersilk and Mister Magazine.

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