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Shannon McClellan

My thin metal hair pin,
that one with the flower
at the end, laid alone
on the desk
its stiff petals drenched
in the lumbering, clunking
heat of Chestertown’s summer
that seeped in the window.
We waited for the officer
that night, to let us in
after I locked us out
of my apartment
because I was too distracted
by the cut of your arms
in that ridiculous tie-dye tank.
The room on College Ave
bookended by hanging willows,
didn’t feel like me
didn’t look like me
without life on the walls
and it was empty
except for crushed Goldfish
and my flower hair pin.
Once and a while, however,
you’d visit and bring your scent
that filled room 108E
until it was unbearable—
so I’d take out my hair pin,
that one with metal petals,
and lay it alone on the desk
in the room with very little
except for everything between us.

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