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Passion Sunday

Passion Sunday

Furtively, I watch him wipe
blood from tracks on his arm
before I leave for Palm Sunday Mass.

He swore he didn’t — only pot,
which he grows in a closet.
Still. Leaving wasn’t going to be easy.

Exit, Ave. B, 1983 photograph by Philip Pocock
Exit, Ave. B, 1983, photograph by Philip Pocock.

We were engaged. I finally got
someone I had wanted
but the desire was dated.

Ten years ago, he was a hot
musician, in demand by bands
and a slew of gals.

Now he’s a trust fund baby
in night school and I’m a
half orphaned child-woman

coming to terms with loss,
family, writing.
I want to jump off this cross.

Amy Barone

Photographs Poetry

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