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Silver Shadows, cloudy liners


Rebecca Thrush
Poetry

I wish I knew the brand of

that fruity shellac, every

waft brings me back to eleventh

grade, messy curlers and

gaudy lipstick to match

 

It’s funny to think we wanted

to be bright enough to sparkle

on stage, in a sea of Irish

twins, all of us vying for stardom

and wallflower glory

 

The hot green pleather and

rubber runway throwing off steam

That loud goosh of engines

pulling to a halt outside of this month’s

hotbed of potential victories

 

Did our mothers know

how long we’d spend chasing the high

of our dancing youths?

 

A decade of dreams forever filled

with countless feet and tiny stages

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