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Dusk and three minutes
Of fading light,
Pale as moonflowers,
Muted trumpets now,
Drawn up tight as those
Parasols propped in
The corner of your aunt’s
Screened-in side porch, which
She calls veranda, where
White wicker bites
Through your white cotton
Shift, as she lifts a disk
Of black scratchy “wax,”
Places it on the Victrola,
Says, I’ll be back in
A shake, you two, and
Disappears inside.
As the heavy arm angles
From left to right, as
The stylus traces
Its sapphire finger
Down the record’s groove,
As he skates a single
Finger along the sun-
Bleached down of your
Arm, and as you
Start to shake,
Heart rising and
Falling like Billie’s
Song, cool water poured
To the top, brimming,
Then spilling silver
Notes, and his lips
On yours for —
The stylus bumps
Its paste-paper
Center; you hear
The screen door’s
Thump against its
Frame, hear Aunt’s
High heels tick
Across the porch.
Here’s something
For this heat,
She says, handing you
Each iced tea: beaded
Glass, mint and a
Paper umbrella
Blooming, a drink he
Grasps quickly and gulps.
You’ll have to keep your
Knees pressed tight together.
As the light dims.
As the record changes.
