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Betsy Evans

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today I walked home looking at my phone
regularly, trying not to make it frantic
waiting for something I remember but won't admit
talking to mom for forty minutes to pass the time
thirty minutes too much and
not interrupted by any dings
then a few texts I'd been meaning to send >> sent
then an immediate reply? no
a text from a Houston number
or was it San Antonio?
a brief mystery and
a swipe to the right and
oh
oh!
Steve's play.
suddenly comforted by
talking to a robot programmed by my landlord

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As a joke to myself, when I'm looking for a kitchen item or a scrap of paper art or some other memento from my previous life and home, I remember that I lost it in the divorce. I usually whisper this aloud to myself or, if I am with people, I smirk and toss my head back as if I am a beautiful, WASPy divorcee who has just finished a game of tennis. The tone is more "lost the beach house in Tulum" and less the truth: I lost the grapefruit spoon; I lost the collection of National Geographic maps; I lost the good nail clippers. When I told him my little joke with a ha ha half awkward laugh over lunch one day, he said dryly: That's what my mom calls it.

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The birch trees at Graylag have many eyes

I can only hear the spinning fan of my overworked hard drive
the feeling of smacking lips as
I reach over to pull an invisible hair out of your mouth
or swat at a fruit fly

surely things were said
I don’t know anymore

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