print previewback LAUREN HILGER
Palinode
Out here
in the cowboy’s tee shirt,
anyone could see me, should they look.
I take it back, disjointed
longing, retract
changing the body into abstract grief.
The artist next door adjusts
his light. It feels like
a beach house in NJ,
an outdoor shower,
wet stones, crabs for dinner.
Seventy degrees, the internet is down.
I want to remind you
of what will be easier.
Any woman in my position
would have
him fetch the tea, push the swing,
cut out a circle in the woods.
That Fragonard life. Everything can be
true. 
Almanac of What’s Real
Palinode