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We Remember The Same Spring Chill

by Michael Zunenshine

We remember the same spring chill
alone on the wet picnic table
on the terrace of my namesake church,
and I had a beer, but
I forget what you had, and
you asked if I loved you, but
I forget what I said;

That afternoon was the mutant child
born violent and rushed of a reckless myth,
we couldn’t confront the helplessness
we’d made together,
not knowing how to hold it
or stop its still-human cries;

We’d shared so much
of silliness and skin,
but you made me believe
your hide was too precious;
today I dress up in thicker skins
and my blood riots hot
Beneath their mixed messages;

Whatever we shared has been orphaned,
split into two separate beasts,
each swearing to crush
his brother’s heart.

Michael Zunenshine completed his MA in literature at the Université de Montréal. His work has been published in SAND Journal, Underground Voices, Heater and Sex, Drugs & Horror. Having recently returned from Berlin, he now splits his time between Mexico City and his hometown of Montreal.

Categories

Poetry, The River

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