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The Warning

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My grandfather’s hands, wrinkled and starred with liver spots

like black constellations in a sea of milk.

Your palms, soft and shaking, each knuckle

sharply defined through the skin.

His constant scent of cigarettes and warm apple pie,

back bent like the cane my grandmother always relies on.

How he warned me about men like you,

men with teeth that clack against my own when our mouths meet

until I can no longer distinguish between the music they make

and the sound of piano keys.

How he has shrunk half an inch per year, jokes that his pocketbook

is a poor man’s iPod, looks at me in shrewd silence when I mention your name.

He knows you are dangerous, my grandfather does.

Knows that our bodies are just leading each other over the edge,

that the closer our legs get to touching,

the closer we are to falling.

He warned me about you.

I didn’t listen.


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