Waga

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The art exhibit played
raucously in the back-
ground, something on
Dagestan or Chechnya or both.

A Persian rug strewn
across the icy floor,
pillows along the make-
shift wall, we sit.

The noise is louder,
drumming or singing
or yelling or some-
thing like this…

He was 58, at minimum,
tall with Slavic glasses,
or so I dubbed them- all
slavic men of a certain

age wear them. The
singing grew and the
pounding on the cans
became more feverish.

He reads my palm, is this
normal? My love life will
be filled with sadness-
not looking promising…

Do I believe in palm
reading? No. Is this how
men of a certain age
flirt? Maybe…

My decisions will be my
downfall…this isn’t
going well. Im the scales-
I like two lovers, not one.

He’s the fish, a romantic.
Do I believe in horoscopes?
No. But I’m the scales,
two faces, two hearts…

So maybe I do believe in
horoscopes in my other face?

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