Ode to Iris Circle

You were seven, well, six and three quarters:

the age where strawberries & cantaloupe

still masqueraded as dessert; time was

as foreign as Florentines or wormwood;

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laughter came as easy as the ouchies

on your knees; car rides with mom at midnight

were a covenant between a twenty-

something and you and the moon that followed.

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Little 90's baby, you knew nothing

of apartheid or cold wars or Clinton.