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He tells me to say “ah”, then
takes a wooden sickle,
places it gently on my tongue–
prying it open,
peers deep inside
to try to tell me what is wrong.
And I can only giggle, 
choke on my own saliva
and tell him how much I miss
watermelon popsicles
on hot summer days when,
in my generation,
children still went outside to play.
Did your sadness begin then?
He tries to…