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The Past

by Sarah Frost   What were you thinking, mother When you handed me the slim rectangular package containing a watch, for my tenth birthday as I came to your bed that lonely winter morning? I was mute with my longing

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Jazz song

by Sarah Frost   The saxophone segues into a room simmering with strangers: its notes are bricks, constructing shelter. Leaning into a bench corner, he swallows down a melancholy beer, lets his eye slide from under his worn checked cap.

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