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NICK AIEZZA

The Polaroid in my Yard
    
            
One corner chewed away by rain and me
and shoestring grass clings to it like wind is for humans
alone to harness for travel. Under air the hue
of harvest I run my finger over the torn corner,
memorize the man behind the camera. A woman in focus throws
wheat. Hair in acoustic curls along the ridge of her chin.
Green and alabaster water for eyesight. The lens, always clean,
streams toward the spot he'd swallow petroleum for
to find just once, if they'd happen to be drunk together, in wine
soaked sheets on New Year's Eve with Christmas still
crushing their radio to static, wine glasses broken in stars
across the floor lit up like fireworks when ambulance lights
fall through the blinds. Nothing important missing from the photo but her
hands ripped away at the corner, floating around on their own.
If you've ever seen a lampshade fill with light then you'd know
he loves her and she'll flip the switch
on and off until the bulb burns out.
I fix my bite around teeth marks
already denting the photograph. A perfect fit.
The photographer's gall for bringing a camera.
I push the polaroid into my tin of smokes.
I'll keep it there until my next yard sale
where it will end up in a box of souvenirs from Bermuda,
renegade cutlery, and used postcards
marked, Best Offer for Everything,
and I'll say to any customer
who browses her still life,
She threw
copper grains
against autumn eyes
swollen brown. 



63   The Paris-American

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Nick Aiezza received his MA from Manhattanville College where he served as Poetry Editor of Inkwell. Currently, he lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York state.


   
   Next week's poet:

 T. Zachary Cotler
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