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By Sarah Jean Carter

It was the day of the car show
and when we came home

the kitchen was a garlicky hell,
laughter and Chicago Spanish
coming out the windows.
So you sat on the front steps and I

on your knees. I sponged
my copper polished legs

soaking through my skirt
while you rubbed ice

on my shoulders.
You didn't have to remind me that I
refused the sunscreen twice
but I barely felt your goodnight
because your lips were burnt sore, too.