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      September 7, 2012Anna Lowe WeberSpring Break 2011

           I know this street.
      In New Orleans, they call it Bourbon,

           but here, it’s Duval.
      Key West in March might have been

           a bad idea.
      The first night, we make our way

           down to Duval,
      push through the masses to find a restaurant,

           some semblance of quiet.
      I just want a glass of wine, I tell my husband.

           Key West in March
      might have been a bad idea. So many

           bodies in one place.
      So many legs and arms and breasts exposed,

           slivers of ass
      hanging out from under shorts

           like crescent moons.
      Maybe I’m just jealous—these girls are

           only ten years younger
      than me, but my ass never looked like that.

           Their nubile forms glisten
      and from their belly-buttons, tiny rhinestones

           glitter and wink. I shudder
      to think of one day having children of our own.

           I’m already plotting
      the ways I’ll tuck them away for months, years.

           I just want a glass of wine.
      A girl stumbles into me, presses her sweaty chest

           to mine. Her mouth
      is stained red with some alcoholic berry slush,

           but she doesn’t spill
      a drop from her cup. Whoa, she cries. Sorry!

           For the moment that
      our bodies tangle, I’ve never felt so old.

           Spring Break 2011!
      she shouts and moves back into the flow

           of the ocean of people,
      disappearing down the street’s pulsing horde,

           a trail of whoop whoops
      emitting from her throat like a never-ending

           magician’s scarf. Early
      the next morning, I am back on Duval, running.

           As I count foot strikes,
      the street is being hosed down, all evidence

           of last night’s revelry
      disappearing in a stream of water mixed with

           urine, vomit, and beer.
      Other streets are perfumed with jasmine,

           the sprawling, heady vines
      carpeting entire trees. On these streets,

           people are gently rising
      in pastel bungalows, waking through

           a slow series of stretches
      and blinks, creamy morning sun filtering in

           from bedroom windows.
      They’re sitting down to breakfast in the garden,

           the clink of silverware
      tapping on plates and bowls just audible

           through the terraced walls.
      At 3 a.m. the night before, I was pulled from slumber

           by a girl returning home.
      In the shared courtyard of our condominium unit,

           I listened to her
      retch and retch into what I hoped

           was the bushes.
      Please not the walkway—at least

           not the walkway.
      I rose from bed to check from the window

           and found her
      completely naked. Breasts, ass,

           tiny manicured patch of hair.
      She was bent over into (thank god) the hedges,

           but after a few seconds
      she righted herself, body luminous, tan lines

           like tiger stripes
      across her chest and pelvis. I watched until

           she staggered away.
      Strange to call her beautiful, but she was.

      from #36 - Winter 2011