Why I can’t stop picturing
my cousin’s podiatric varicosity
during that unwanted moment
in which she crossed her legs
manlike at a pool party thus
simultaneously freeing one or two
fringe-dwelling pubic hairs
and said, “Ugh, Modelo,
Modelo and crab cakes again,”
and laughed as though we knew
what she was talking about
is so far beyond me
that I no longer even desire
to shoot myself in the mouth
to end the torment some
twenty years hence—in fact
no longer even recall
her name, so condescending
did she prove to be thereafter.
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