Dandelion Lint

Tom Disalvo

Artwork: Atsaya Gabiryalpillai | @_atsaya_

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Those jeans —

washed denim,

ripped below the knee,

tattered above the heel,

belted around the midriff.

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Trace loose threads,

follow the day’s wear and tear,

splotchy mornings

bleached coffee stains,

sultry evenings —

buttons undone.

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The frays

unfurling,

like the hushed secrets

she whispers in the dark.

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Study the whitewash

spinning,

like clouds

sewn on pale blue skylines —

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bring the heavens to her thighs.

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The places they’ve taken her —

to bus stops and corner shops,

on skateboards,

along meandering streets,

to leafier retreats.

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See them running in fields —

they climb jacaranda trees,

make angels in wheatgrass,

fade in the springtime sun.

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Reaped cotton

sews her to the soil below —

fleecy tendrils

planting her

in amber–flecked reveries.

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On walks home,

they carry dandelion lint.

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Inspect the stitching —

a pretty patchwork

of spring’s leftovers;

self-seamed sunflowers,

and honeysuckle hems.

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They smell of daylight savings,

of rain on dry earth.

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By morning,

they’re freckled by pistachio brittle

and parching orange juice.

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Watch them as they come alight,

tiptoeing on sunlight leaks

to other places —

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greener places.

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Soon she dissipates,

flesh like pollen in the breeze.

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But there remains those

springtime jeans.