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White Shoes

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34 WHITE SHOES/ Roy Bentley I was fifteen and soft-faced wholly inarticulate and bought ice cream from her weekdays and Saturdays most of one digressive summer just to watch through the serving window of the snack trailer her terribly eloquent bending from the waist her smile and a peek down blouse- top kept me in line in the heat behind half the restless children of Kentucky who seemed never to note the bronze chocolate heaviness of eyes milk-white beginnings of breasts itrawberry rosettes of nothing less than what stops the heart that same year walking in some unpeopled place she unearthed a girl buried and shallowly beneath a sighing peninsula of poplar in the papers she remembered everything the gray of exposed skin the absence of one half the face the surface hunger of the other staring half the black lakebed of blood by living curves of root the musculature of intended cruelty the white shoes I heard she rode horses after rode in light and long breeze asaddle and bareback above the dead not so much to ride horses I imagine as hold to something anything of flesh whose movements seem to hover like the heat of fields like summer Bentley, Roy. "White Shoes." The Cornfield Review 8 (1989): 34. Available online at Copyright held by the author.

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