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Draft ResistorWhen we met in 1969 after the warhad started but not before it had ended & I was wearing my plastic fake leather mini skirt & you, your European intellectual glasses & little did I know about anything, being 22, but less even about how you would counsel my current boyfriend to act crazy for his draft physical which he would do so convincingly he went crazy soon after and had to be flown home & you would take pity on me & visit in your real leather jacket, son of a dairy farmer, & I would talk to you from my mattress on the floor surrounded by books & poems & my small Olivetti typewriter on a stool & you would sit in a chair above me & listen but really hear Lake Michigan half a block away & that was it, a man who confused a lake with a woman & dove in, even in chilly Chicago winter & a woman who loved anything that brought her to a bed & some poems & 30 years later on the phone you don't know what is on the table to make you happy only I know that good food & work & children are on my platter & how this love story ends is a daily bread question & how this long love continues is not exactly an answer but at least the Vietnam war is over & couples go there now on holiday. |
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Issue #17, September, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.