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Real gods require blood. – Zora Neale Hurston

A five-year-old skips in light iambic pentameter
across the parking lot with her mother. A chocolate

lab on a leash laps up water from a blue bowl.
Spring sun blazes on cars outside a coffee shop.

Chrome and windshields blind retinas into believing
summer is immured by glare. In a week, the blooming

lilacs near the patio where I sit will be gone.
A silver-haired man leaves the shop empty-handed,

closes the door on his fire-engine red Jeep, waits.
A thin-thin woman on aluminum crutches creaks

toward the passenger side. With sack of bagels, a shop
employee follows, hands them to the waiting driver.

The woman teeters, opens the red door with one hand,
starts screaming, What were you thinking? You left me

in there alone. Move them off my seat! Move them!
I just found out I have cancer and you walk out!

He says nothing over her insoluble obscenities.
Between the two, the incident holds

the patina of anger-oxide. Re-inflicted wounds,
scars that bloom between them in every season.


Jari Thymian’s poetry has appeared in Margie Review, Broadsided Press, Simply Haiku, Ekphrasis, The Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal Magazine, Alehouse, Melusine, Pirene’s Fountain, and Chicken Pinata. Her chapbook, The Meaning of Barns (Finishing Line Press), was inspired by a barn raising at Common Harvest Farm near Osceola, WI. She is delighted that one of her poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives in a suburb of Denver, CO. Website:

© 2010, Jari Thymian

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