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A Middle-Aged Woman Stopped at Her Border (June 11, 2001)
by Barbara L. Cohen
One hundred and forty familiar miles,
my head has finally crossed the border.
The wine is poured.
I sit on your couch wrapped in the blue robe
that resides in your other country.
You, tired, and in pain,
from the weekly basketball game
you refuse to retire,
lie by my feet,
absently stroking my painted-for-you toes.
We sip the wine
in tired Friday night silence.
Which part of you has painted your toes red for me,
you ask patiently.
My eyes averted, I respond,
I still do not know.
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