Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry


by Nicholas Ripatrazone

Photography by Kawika Chetron


The man on stage rolled a quarter
across his knuckles, silver
climbing over skin
before disappearing into jacket sleeve,
but the real trick sat
in the third row, last seat:

my mother,
who did not know I was there,
holding hands with another man.
By the end of the show, his palm
smothered hers, and she
was gone.


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