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Poetry

Pink

Hillary Wentworth

Left the babies with a neighbor, walked
downtown, drank some coffee, found a spot

in Dealey Plaza. I was goin’ to see the president.
When the car came by, I couldn’t help it. I yelled,

“She’s wearin’ my dress!” cuz me and Jackie,
we had the same thing on. Pink, like the flamingos

in the rich people’s yards off Highland Avenue. Pink,
like they say his brain looked in her lap on the way

to Parkland Hospital. And really, it was the perfect color
to blend with blood stains. When the shots rang

out, I held my body as if it were her body, as if I could
help her contain his brain with my dress. But baby, I could not

contain. I threw up on the concrete, and something pink
like a heart slipped out of me.

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