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humming along to carburetors with a popsicle in july

Kimberly Glanzman

my best friend Ems

takes the last

strawberry, but I don’t

mind – it scars her lips

vermillion, catches

in the wisps curling up

from her thick brown braid

when she leans back in

her green/blue lawn chair,

eyes screwed shut

as she conducts

the orchestral swell

of some late-70s love song

ricocheting out of the old

silver boombox & around

the inside of her parents’ garage,

and the popsicle melts

down her hand, drips

across her clavicle,

a ruby necklace

of wishes.


In a tragic turn of events, Kimberly Glanzman, who was probably an orca or an anemone in a previous life, now lives in the Arizona desert. She writes words in various shapes and sizes, which you can find on her website or by following her on Twitter @glanzman_k

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