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Melanie Juarez

Sundays Pass Quietly Now

There is cooking,

and washing dishes,

and every afternoon

the bed gets fresh sheets,

crumbs from the past week

swept off the surface of

the mattress.


The aloe vera plant on the windowsill,

its leaves clipped,

blunt, straight cuts on the tips,

where its soft insides

were drained

and smothered onto

splotchy red mosquito bites.


There is worrying about having bed bugs,

about undereating,

about clogged arteries,

swollen tendons


And then,

while sorting old papers,

recognizing the handwriting

on an envelope,

even after all this time.

It’s only my name,

and the card has gone missing,

but the shapes of those letters

are unmistakable


Being enclosed, warm and

sleepy already,

but staying up just to

finish this letter


Folding an envelope,

pocket and flaps.

The name on the front,

your name in my handwriting.

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