citronella candles at the back of my calves
i pinch exoskeletons between thumb
and forefinger wet with lips salted and swollen
it was uncle mac who dropped the lemons
cut the celery and poured the cayenne.
whose curled lip smile teases, "you don't like it,"
uncle mac dances the way mr. Kunitz,
rolled up the sleeves of his starched shirt.
limbs suspended sacred, each movement so
precise it cuts the most invisible air.
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