Phoebe’s Letter

by hala alyan

Summers,
I steal perfume from mint leaves, and
New
Years’, I buy the most gorgeous stationary for you,
opulent
creams and blues, sugar-glaze of ink. Every film I see
stars
you, little carousel eye. I could be priestess or
archeologist
and, still, no red dust would mantle you. Do you miss my
closets?
I have small furies, too.
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