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Oh My Giddy

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Joan Lennon

I practised deep inhaling, hoping, like you, to float.
You travelled so light, your shoes
never lined up for cleaning
on Saturday nights.

I imagined a flutter of postcards, you summoning me.
The thick thunk of junk mail
daily hit the floor,
deposited by the wheezing postie.

I named a constellation after you.
It’s still up there,
just the other side
of the street lights’ lid.

© Joan Lennon

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