The way the girlís hair broke free from the blindfold.
Yellow curls climbing wind, greedy for sky... (As though two days without sunlight were two years gone by.)
The volcano of relief erupting from her motherís throat.
Footfalls flowing forth, melting the space between them. (Their embrace was a fierce celebration of freedom.)
The shade of the tree I watched my family from behind.
Dark hiding my face and the briefcase in my hand... (the container of wages of a savage ex-husband.)
The retreating taillights, a warm red release.
Though Iíd surrendered my savings to buy a simple divorce... (now Iíd reclaimed my money and could quit sanding floors.)
The gas tank near empty maintaining the thrill.
Just ten miles til my tires spin the sands of Mexico. (And the price of gasolina: un nuevo misterio.)
The shards of my marriage sharp enough for new wounds.
Iíll practice rolling my rís til my charm works in bars. (Iíll buy tequila til a senorita lets me make some new daughters.)

Henry Presente's creative juices have stained the pages of SmokeLong Quarterly, flashquake, Pear Noir!, Harpur Palate, The MacGuffin, Jelly Bucket, Reed Magazine, and Broken Pencil, among other publications. Occasionally, a Pushcart Prize nomination has sopped up some of the sauce.

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