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Poetry by Dustin Brookshire 

Dustin Brookshire is a Georgia native and Dolly fanatic that calls Atlanta home.  His work has been published in numerous publications and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Visit his site.



© 2011 Dustin Brookshire








I never liked Christina 

but here  I am complimenting her hair,

telling her how good she looks,

and I actually mean it.

Christina tells me I should leave

as a concert starts

in the middle of the neighborhood park.

A man drops from a platform

that appears as suddenly 

as a summer thunderstorm. 

This man, this hunk, 

part Bill from True Blood,

part Enrique Iglesias.

Christina says leave 

as you appear in a front row seat

and then run to the stage.  

Bill-Enrique pulls you to him for a kiss.  

My face turns red like Christina's hair.  

She pats my back; she thinks I want you. 

I wake as I lean to whisper 

I should have been the one kissed.








His hands flare like chrysanthemums

in the movies:  wide to cover your mouth,

wide to press your hands

into the bed. 

That night, it wasn't a movie,

when he pressed his hands into mine,

into the mattress I later burned.

His hands were once beautiful 

like a bed of chrysanthemums

when they stroked my jaw line,

caressed my back, pulled me into him.

And, now, I still feel his hands 

that are smaller than mine

as I wake from the repeating nightmare.

God damnit, why didn't you fight? 



*First line is from Christopher Tozier's "Summer Evening, Hopper 1947"






All work is property of Dustin Brookshire.




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